The Lamb
by apeacockpersian
Summary: Guilty of murdering the Knight Captain, a demonic emissary seeks absolution. As Nevalle questions her trial, Casavir seeks revenge for his lover's death, and Bishop returns to the city, Neverwinter becomes entangled in the chilling schemes of the Abyss.
1. Opening: Chapter One

Opening: Chapter One

The halo of the knight Nevalle's blonde hair, dampened with rain, appeared from beneath a drenched hood as his eyes rose to the canopy of trees above. His lips fell into a disillusioned frown, and a hand lifted, halting the cavalcade in his wake. The clamor of sodden hooves and the rustle of wet cloaks subsided. Nevalle's heels pressed his steed's side from deep in the stirrups; his palomino stallion cantered the length of the convoy and returned to its center. An ebony-haired man, scarred from the war against the King of Shadows and freshly knighted as one of the Neverwinter Nine, leaned in the seat of his saddle towards his superior.

"How does she fare, Casavir?" Nevalle asked of him.

"She lives still, to my dismay." He responded. Nevalle glanced over Casavir's broad, armored shoulder at the white-cloaked figure on the opposite side. Grey-skinned hands, tipped in nails studded with glass crystals, were bound to the pommel of her mare's saddle, her head bowed so the white hood draped over her face. Nevalle's charge, his prisoner, was his most complicated. An Outsider, by title of his people, guilty she may have been of murder yet in her realm, justice was not measured in the same standards. Casavir once more faced Nevalle, eyes sharpened and fearsome. Indeed, too there were the personal ties to the trial, lives left ruined in the wake of the demon that demanded consideration. It was in this that Casavir brokenly added, "I suggest we pause not for this… _lady's_ health and continue on to Neverwinter."

Nevalle's head shook, rain thrust from him by the thrash of his cloak. His eyes ventured to the woman, tracing the divots in the cloak where her horns protruded from her skull and spiraled upwards in dual rose helixes. It was as if her hands ran yet with the blood of the innocents, as if her sleeves still yet were stained with the lost lives, taken by her. And yet she was an echo of a killer, frail and feminine, her grace clear in her faultless posture. She nearly would have been a woman. He finally said to Casavir, "That we will speak of later. Now, be cautious of her."

"Think you I wish to escape?"

The knights' breaths became trapped in the hollow of their throats. She, the Archdemon, had spoken in voice as smooth and poisonous in sound as merlot was in taste. The sound split the hiss of water falling against the leaves of the trees. Her head quavered, the hood replacing itself upon her shoulders. Her resplendent face was revealed: grey, tattooed with pink stripes along the softly pronounced bones of her cheek. Above them eyes pale and pink as the early dawn arisen masked all emotion, though doubtless they pierced as if swords splaying human hearts on their iron blades. Harrowing was she more that lovely, and in this beauty, Casavir dipped his chin in descent, teeth grinding in fury at her, in recollection of the beauty hers consumed.

Witnessing this, the demon instead looked to Nevalle. His mouth had hardened into a powerful line, hands taut on his reigns. He said, "I know you wouldn't act so brash, and for that matter, daft, Axarthys Saintrowe."

"No more have I the motivation to slay the innocents as once I did." She replied, stare focused momentarily upon Casavir. The paladin had lain to rest his brow in the palm of his gloved hand, clenching it. His teeth were bared and gritted in an expression that danced the verge between fury and sorrow.

"Casavir." Nevalle ordered. The paladin's attention was captured, and his head rose. His eyes opened, wet at their rims with unshed tears. Nevalle said, "We continue to Neverwinter, and hope to arrive their on the morrow. We will not pause save to sleep this night. This I swear. Regain composure and assure this demon does nothing suspicious in your watch. Take solace in your control of this… prisoner."

"We delay justice in stopping." Casavir managed to protest.

"And we deny many good men a well-deserved sleep for sake of a criminal should we continue." Nevalle consoled, "You need to rest, Casavir. It is only one night. Establish camp and I will take the prisoner."

"Yes, sir." He forcibly replied.

-

The stag dashed through the wood, its golden coat sparkling in splashes of light and rain cast down from the canopy of trees above. Fallen branches were cleared in leaps of its cloven hooves in its spree. His blackened eyes wide, scoping the path ahead, he dove beneath the brush atop a knoll, descending the hill on the opposite side in a single sweep of svelte legs against wet leaves and underbrush. His escapade had been victorious, and emerging from the brush unscathed, the stag had left his pursuer far in the wake of his trail.

The man halted, bow lowered, hands lingering on the fletching of his arrow. He was perched up on a rock, black leather boots poised on the slick surface to pounce should his prey return, but his patience was not so rewarded. A growl leaked past the gates of his lips as he surrendered his post, stepping from it to crush the moss under his feet beneath the heels of his boots. His arrow replaced in his quiver, bow slung over a curved, strapping shoulder, he cocked his head and listened to the relative quiet of the forest and the murmur of the falling rain. Determination fed the swiftness of his second attempt at the hunt. He should not have been so reckless as to have pursued the last deer on foot, he rebuked.

Scaling a tree, he readied himself on a branch, setting the knock of an arrow against the bowstring. His eyes rose, maple in color, though not nearly as saccharine, so biting their gaze was. Scanning the wood, he sought the fleeting shuffle of cloven hooves across the wood. No deer made themselves apparent. Wrinkling his nose and breathing in the scent of the forest, he found in his nostrils the stench of a fire burning, a distant echo of voices and the crackle of a fire beckoning his ears to draw nearer to listen. A human encampment, he noted. No deer, shy as they were, would approach now.

Cursing, he crawled from his post and began to trace the noises, a hand instinctually embracing the hilt of a long sword in a scabbard at his side. Sidling past evergreen brush and bushes, he knelt in the guise of leaves and around the trunk of a tree to be met with the sight of knights. The imaginary stench of righteousness assaulted his nose. A silent snarl. The Nine and their squires were setting camp, presumably for the night's time. Familiar and hated faces hastened to hammer stakes into the earth, puncturing Mother Earth's mossy flesh to create shelter. Casavir and Sand's existence among their number had the hunter's hand shuddering on his weapon, revolted with their compliance to serve Neverwinter for a pocket like a mouth gluttonously gorging itself on gold and an empty title, as if to sell their souls in subterfuge of what was moral and chivalrous.

"Tether the prisoner beside the fire, over there, against the tree. See to it that she has water." He heard Nevalle order. From the horses two guards dismounted and carried the woman, their arms looped around hers. Nevalle took a handful of her hood and removed it, lifting her chin with his finger, "And see to it she is fed well. Her cheeks are gaunt and her skin grows pale."

The hunter _knew_ her.

"Neither hunger nor thirst plagues me, though if it is in blindness on which you insist to act, have not me stop you." The woman replied to the knight. Her face turned, suddenly recognized in its full. Horns shone as if glass atop her brow, their pinkness bled into the circles of her eyes. Unmistakable was she, and in her appearance and in the smoothness of her velvet voice the hunter clamored to his feet, bolting deep into the wood as breaths quickened. He had to _reach her, _to see her, to free her. If only the knights would depart for slumber, leaving her to her loneliness.

The hunter scarcely was patient. But for her sake, he was all he never was.

-

Nevalle knelt at the ground of his tent, etching patterns into the earth with a lengthy twig. Any thoughtless activity was something to substitute for his dwelling on the prisoner. How would the Nine punish her? Where could a tanar'ri, Archdemon to a demonic host and freshly exalted as a hero of the Blood Wars, be withheld without her devilish peers' knowing? Could a planar being be subject to mortal, human laws? What divine involvement would shatter the judicial order of Neverwinter should she, Axarthys Saintrowe, be convicted in such manner as to infuriate gods of her realm? Lord Nasher had warned him of the difficulty of his duty. Nevalle had not foreseen his situation would have been akin to crossing a canyon over a single braid of rope to act as a bridge.

At any second, with any action, Nevalle could fall. Fall from grace, from his position, from life itself. Politics, politics, and he, though noble and well enough in the social sect, required insight from a cleverer source. Thus, from the fabric-fold of his tent door, a versed moon elf sidled about the perimeter of the tent to sit cross-legged at Nevalle's side.

"I do believe the last this happened was three years ago, when you called on me to defend that charmingly… _impervious_ Knight Captain of yours. Now that she is dead and you have the supposed murderer within the very glade we sit in, allow me to take a most _wild _stab at why you would summon _me, _a most _humble_ magician, to your tent." Sand leered, "You again call me to a task worthy of my talents that couldn't be more of a problem if you mixed in a bucket-full of rowdy Luskans fresh from Ember. Consult away, my liege. We have all night to chat before Casavir awakens and weeps that the Knight Captain's murderer's execution can no more be delayed."

Nevalle dropped the twig into the tracing of dirt, leaning atop his elbows to frown, "This is no state of affairs to mock, Sand. There are so many elements to this trial, if we can even call it such, that we have yet to resolve."

"Like what?"

"She is an Archdemon, so we can't execute her. She is not even worldly; she comes from the Abyssal plane. She is the handmaiden warrior of wicked gods and a demon lord. What we deal in here is not simple human affairs, Sand, and that is why I need your advising. We tamper with trying to punish the actions of a being not ruled by the laws of our lands. Neverwinter seeks retribution for the death of their hero, but we can't let them have it, not without digging ourselves an even deeper grave." Nevalle sighed, "And it has been three years' time. We risk reviving memories best left forgotten for the sake of all who traveled with the Knight Captain."

"Well, well. Nasher does seem to get pinned into some intriguing corners. And we thought after Luskan fled and the King of Shadows was killed all in Neverwinter would be jubilant and blissful. I have a suggestion- why don't we just leave her in the woods here, return to Neverwinter and say a score of succubi made off with her?" Sand responded.

"I could not so shirk my duties. I believe in the rationality of our government, and that though pressing, no task they hand to us is unfeasible. Some are simply more trying than others. We need only be cautious and reverent of the otherworldly forces we tamper with." Nevalle said. Sand's eyes rolled in their sockets, his lips twisted in aggravation.

"Seeing as you have all this figured out, I'll be leaving." He said.

"Sand, I know how to go about justice. It is the justice we deal I am unsure of." Nevalle said, "And though I make justice my career, there are some matters in which having a political chameleon such as you is necessary. How do I please the warriors of Crossroad Keep while remaining unnoticed by the Abyssal elite?"

"Very well. I can tell you this very moment killing her would be outrageous. You'd do better defenestrating yourself from Nasher's palace. Death is far from subtle." Sand replied, "And conversely, death is the only equivalent to her actions against the Knight Captain, and the only form of closure Neverwinter will be willing to accept. So, combine the two, and you have yourself-"

"-A rather impossible situation."

"You said yourself Nasher would not expect the impossible of you. If death is all that will quench Neverwinter's thirst for justice, than you must give them death. And if death will have the demon lords breathing fire down your trousers, assure that it doesn't appear you directly caused her demise."

"You suggest magic or poison, then?" Nevalle asked, mouth straightened into a quizzical line. Sand smiled, finger wagging.

"Demons can smell magic and poison a hundred leagues away. So what kills that is not human and not magic? Disease." Sand said, "If only Maugrim still lived to inflict the Wailing Death on her. Then we'd be in a perfect position."

"She would unnecessarily suffer for weeks, months before dying." Nevalle uttered.

"Either her or the whole of Neverwinter if the demon lords chose to take action." Sand noted, "Sicken her, exile her, and soon your guilt will depart. Besides, she would pass to the Abyssal planes once more, her native home. It's not as if she would be forever erased from existence. And in the Abyss, who would have her tale of her story of death by the hand of Neverwinter? On the otherworldly planes, the demons and devils are so consumed by the Blood Wars that they have no time for her private suffering."

Nevalle gnawed on the inside of his cheek, rubbing his brow. Indeed, should he take heed to Sand's words and enact the plan, surely the imaginary defendants and plaintiffs in the case for the life of Axarthys Saintrowe would be satisfied. But at the price of his morality, was it worth allowing a woman- demon or human regardless- to wither? Could he gaze into her dying eyes, red and dry and sagging at the lids in exhaustion from illness, and not see the shame for doing unto another being such a punishment?

"I will consider your words, Sand. Know that this is difficult for me." He said, "You are dismissed."

When the elf departed, Nevalle stretched out on the linens of his bedroll, looking up at the night sky through the hole in the fabric where the tent met at its highest peak. He had killed many a time, from beasts and goblins to baatezu and fellow humans alike. What stayed his hand for Axarthys Saintrowe? The brutality of his willingness to kill her by disease? Or was that only the sway her temptress's eyes held over his captive soul?

He drifted to sleep. He didn't want to consider it.

Within a day and half's time, he could no longer be so ignorant. Arrived in Neverwinter, assembled in the throne room the Neverwinter Nine reposed in white ivory chairs, Lord Nasher in his polished silver at their head atop his throne. At their center, the crumpled heap of pink silk gown that was Axarthys Saintrowe imprisoned in a circle of runes bound by clerical magic. All of the assembly watched her curiously, as if she would writhe in the same manner as possessed humans even in her strictly demonic form. All were silent, as if the summit was and exorcism and not a meeting of the state of Neverwinter. As if Tyr's divinity would surge through the tanar'ri, and she would babble in forgotten tongues and ramble obscenities and persist that her host body she would not escape through godly measures.

The truth was less theatric. Instead, sprawled cross the stone floors, fingernails rapping on the ground in endlessly repeated rhythms, she resembled some enchantingly beautiful nymph displayed for the enjoyment of the court, like some fanciful caged bird. In either case, she captivated her audience, leaving them rapt in the wake of her horrific, evocative splendor. It took their lord Nasher's vehemence to initiate their assembly, his voice booming, "You bring this tanar'ri before me as the accused in the murder of the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep? Yet you know I am unable to rule on the guilt or innocence of those not of Neverwinter, and certainly not of those of another plane."

"If I may, milord." Casavir spoke. Nasher nodded in acknowledgement, and the paladin stood. Freshly knighted into the Nine, garbed in the blues of their order with the bleeding eye signet plastered cross it, he arose from his seat, addressing the assembly and Nasher, "Once, Neverwinter withheld one of the Githzerai, Zhjaeve, before she was seen as to be not a threat. I see no wrongdoing in interfering with the justice of this demon if she has interfered in our affairs, and during times of war, no less."

"We deal not with a single, potentially hostile race but with demon lords and deities." Nevalle countered, "I urge discretion. It was in the name of the Blood Wars that Axarthys Saintrowe slew the Knight Captain, and it is no far stretch to imagine what would happen if we in turn killed her."

"You are merciful because you did not know what was lost when the Knight Captain was killed, Nevalle." Casavir growled.

"I am not merciful, I am cautious, and in the name of Neverwinter." He defended, voice echoing rebuke.

"And do not you think the Knight Captain fought in the name of Neverwinter? Greater was she a hero of this land than you; she was our savior and our friend, our leader and our confidante. She _bled_ for us at Crossroad Keep, she _died _for us on the very march to the King of Shadow's realm at the hands of the demon that lies before us this very _instant_, and you will find mercy in your heart for her soul? What softness of heart elevated _you _to the forefront of this order?" Casavir snapped.

"You would bring my character under question, after you turned against Neverwinter and prowled the mountains instigating orcs?" Nevalle retorted.

"Casavir, Nevalle, be silent!" Nasher boomed. The knights recoiled, Casavir sinking into the seat of his chair once more, shoulder raised and back sunk into a poised, leonine battle pose silent and telling. Nevalle leaned into his seat, arms crossed about his chest, chin lifted and mouth frowning in distaste. Nasher released a long, audible breath, stating, "We have all lost a dear and beloved ally, Casavir, and we all, including Sir Nevalle, seek justice. I too agree with discreet punishment, but do not take discreet to mean lenient. That is why we are assembled, to decide on a punishment befitting of these standards."

"Let us speak to the tanar'ri," One of the nine suggested, "And determine our conclusion when the action is recounted through the lips of the accused."

Nasher nodded, "I concur. Tell us, demon, how the Knight Captain interfered with the Blood Wars as you claim. Why did you murder her?"

"Is it murder to kill to the sound of the trumpets of war?" She called.

"Then you admit that she is dead because of her involvement in the Blood Wars. What was this involvement? Were you ordered to kill her?" Nasher inquired. The tanar'ri twisted her body, contorted into a seated stance from where she lay strewn on the floor.

"Comprehend nothing you do of hell." She answered in a lengthened hiss, "If it is ignorance you insist upon, I shall indulge you to a direct reply. Dead lays your Knight Captain because she slew the arch-succubus Blooden, agent of the Abyss. My superiors unnamed ordered it of me. Stole from us the Knight Captain did our eyes upon this plane, leaving us blinded where demons and devils alike mingle."

"Then it was your duty?" Nasher asked. Her lips parted, laughter brewing in the back of her mouth, departing her lips as a silken, silver-tongued, chocolate sound.

"A duty? If a duty is something of pleasure, her death was a duty." She said. Casavir sat at the edge of his chair, leaning inward with hands clenched upon the armrests in irate fists at her words.

"She _reveled _in it, Lord Nasher, she _enjoyed _taking the life of our Knight Captain! How could you not punish that foul crime to the fullest extent? How could not make her suffer for _doing _that to her?!" He bounded to his feet, "I _witnessed _the death of the Knight Captain, I _saw _this tanar'ri carve the flesh from our beloved hero's _torso_, I saw-"

"_Casavir_-"

"_I watched her take her by the throat and cut her organs from within her! I watched the Knight Captain as she was impaled upon this demon's blade! I tried so hard to in turn kill this wretched fiend, and she disappeared, and there was blood, blood _everywhere_, and she lay there, and she died in my arms, and I was damned to see her pass from this world!"_ He cried out.

"Casavir, calm yourself." Nasher ordered, "Who else saw the Knight Captain die to act as witness?"

"The others were far behind, my lord." Sand answered in proxy from the room's corner, bending against the wall casually, "We'd gotten ambushed by skeletal undead. But Casavir had followed ahead with the Knight Captain to defend her, so he was all there was to see the death."

"Then there was no other." Nasher said.

"No. No, there had to have been another." Nevalle uttered.

"You weren't even _there_, Nevalle." Casavir barked.

He shook his head, explaining, "Someone had to have instructed the forces of the stronghold not to attack this tanar'ri for her to seamlessly enter and kill the Knight Captain. Someone could have accompanied her, thus participating in the murder. But Garius, Garius would have waited to kill the Knight Captain when she reached him. There was the ranger, the one who fled with Garius. Bishop. Do you know that name, Axarthys?"

Arrogant and superior as her expression was, it was reduced to a sorrowful, lost countenance when the name resounded in the chamber. She whispered, "He had naught to do with this."

"Then you know him?" Nevalle inquired. She was silent, head bowed against her chest with eyes closed. Nevalle turned momentarily to Nasher, saying, "Let me speak to her alone, later. I won't press her any further now. Let us dwell on what we have learned as of yet and be satisfied."

"Then you chose to delay justice once more." Casavir said.

"It will be served. Patience is the price we must pay for closure." Nasher assured, "Now Nevalle, I give you authority over this tanar'ri. Find what you will from her. We will reconvene on the morrow."

-

At the lilting toll of the distant bells of midnight, Nevalle settled at his desk. A knock at the door, the entry of two guards carrying the slight body of the accused tanar'ri. In as if a ceremonial, ritual quiet they settled her to the carpeted floor of the room, abandoning her to their captain. She no longer strained on the arms of her captors, struggled for freedom. She folded her legs properly beneath her with head kept proudly escalated in the angle of its neck. There was a lengthy silence between them. It was her that shattered it.

"You of all your peers are the only one who referred to me by name today." She said. He set down a quill, watching her stare up towards him. Her eyes did not blink. Within the privacy of his thoughts, he shivered.

"It is a beautiful name." He offered, "Not many of your kind have that, or any name."

"You will find I am more human in comparison to all my brethren, and I am thankful you appreciate my sophistication and consider me accordingly." She answered, "No one treats me as if human save you."

"Hence why I can converse with you so smoothly." He said, turning his chair to face her evenly, "And that is good, considering that we have a great deal to speak of concerning the murder of the Knight Captain."

"You wish me to confirm the ranger Bishop was an accomplice in the murder of your hero? To silence the paladin Casavir, whose presence my stomach churns in. To hush the mewled tears shed by Sand, and by Neeshka, and by Khelgar, Elanee, Grobnar, and her uncle, Duncan Farlong?"

"You are well acquainted with your victim's allies." Nevalle noted.

"Complained to I was of all of them by Bishop." She smiled fondly, "Indeed, I knew him. Long have I known him, in truth, well before I was drafted into the Blood Wars and…what seems like, like _eons_ before I became entangled in your earthly politics."

"And was Bishop a part of the plot to assassinate the Knight Captain?"

She shook her head, snowy tresses loose from their twisted bun tumbling about her shoulders in the motion. Her eyes glimmered as if ripples on the surface of pink water. Axarthys murmured, "No. I will not deceive you when I say that he was present there, and in his presence I was relieved. It had been so long since last I had seen him. But he did not aid me, only in support, and such action is to be expected of the closeness we have long shared."

"Then you have known him for a long time." He concluded.

"Our story, extends far from the reaches of the past." She answered.

"Then take me there." He replied.

-

Author's Notes:

If you noticed, the Knight Captain isn't named. This is so you can feel more a part of the story, and that the character is your own PC. Just a clarification. Also, the following chapter will be the prologue. It was intentional that chapter one and it were switched for better literary flow. Additionally, I may not update due to a short vacation I'll be leaving for. But I'm not disappearing, I promise. I also want to take the opportunity to encourage your criticism and thoughts. They propel my story and inspire me lots!

Hope you enjoyed and peace out, dolls

-Valah


	2. Prologue: Red Fallow's Watch

Prologue: Red Fallow's Watch

Between the third and fourth arrows' piercing, their noises thuds as they punctured human flesh and organs and bones, the hunter peered into hell. Within the caldera of the open field, the volcano of his village deteriorated in towers of fire and geysers of smoke. Faces imprinted on the fiber of his memory echoed in the contorted countenances they now were in presence of horror, tears like lava in the reflection of the blaze falling in remorse for their peers, their homes, their lost family and devastated lives. Only years ago had this village been rebuilt upon the ashes of the devastated Red Fallow's Watch for it to fall once more. Children unable to flee their homes pitifully stared, blank of expression, emotions singed by the smoke inhalation, from second-story windows. Their wide irises ogled at him, struck down and pinned as he was. He was forced to become witness to their deaths; fire consumed many, their love-locks of blonde hair withering into ash as their skin bubbled and blistered, or as their homes collapsed, their miniature bodies splayed upon the rubble, impaled on rafters.

Grateful he almost was that his physical pain mounted, numbing the sight of their deaths. Blood simmered from where the arrows pierced. Leaks in his body stained his leather armor, blood ultramafic in its swift, red downpours, collecting as a puddle beneath him. Its dampness was all that saved him from the sweltering temperatures of the burning village. So many had already been surrendered to heaven, freed from that of which he now suffered. Divine punishment, was it, or Fate's irony? For suffer he did, head wailing, brain tremulous within the concave of his skull, limbs immobile from loss of blood, body parched as if a sponge wringed of water.

And the Luskans had won, though they were preordained to die in his mind.

His treachery they were aware, his betrayal evident when his remaining compassion nary could allow him to slay those people who had reared him, smiled at him, fed him, taught him. The hunter had _warned them_, the hunter had _told them_, and even yet obstinate they were, ignoring his plea for their escape. No, the innocents lay murdered that night, and his enemies prowled the Neverwinter wood still. From the smoky air he stole a breath, drowning his lungs in the piercing stench of it. He exhaled, released the foulness from within. A pause, possibly unconsciousness, maybe exhaustion, hopefully death, spanned.

A vision.

A lapse in the hellish scene and in pale visage from the smoke and flames tread the barefoot woman swathed in white. Many ran about her, frantic, flailing, and fleeting, but not she- tranquility was her that night, embodied in the stormy skin of her arms and the lanterns of her rose eyes. Beside his fallen body her knees met the earth, a hand replaced from her side to his torso between the web of arrows trapped inside him. The other hand folded, leaving only a finger she pressed to the petals of her lips, calling in a voice quiet and toxic that articulated, "Bishop, ranger of the wood of Neverwinter. You pass now to the Abyss."

He clamored for words, grasped them in the confines of his mind but not within the basin of his mouth. He could not question her presence, could not summon a voice. An angelic smile laced itself on the silk of her alabaster face, upturning as nimble fingers lifted his head in her palm. She spoke, "I am the tanar'ri Axarthys Saintrowe. Sent here to the mortal plane I was for purpose of revealing to your soul my world, where my lord the Purging Duke Alvarez bears interest of your torture of the Luskan breed. An honor it is to be admitted to his table, though first you must die. Let us see to it that death arrives swift upon its heathen wings."

Replacing his head to the earth beneath them, her spidery hands placed themselves one at the base and at the fletching of the projectiles. So as not to tear more flesh, the tanar'ri guided the arrows out the other side of his chest. His pain elevated to misery, numbed only by the hemorrhaging. Weakened, the last sound available to express his suffering was a long exhale, a caress of the wind by the hiss it made. Freed of the penetrations, he could lie unbolted to the earth, warmed by the pond of his blood that had cascaded from his wounds into the pit below. The tanar'ri's hands were the pillars of support that enabled him to retain his head held upward in position, allowing the orange flames to cast radiant, sparkling light over his features. The chill of his dying skin heated by the blazing homes surrounding him, he felt he'd drank from the chalice of death for the first time.

In desperation he desired to drown himself with the whole of it, to swallow all the liquid death the chalice offered to him. His lids closed over almond-colored eyes, and what felt a deep sleep washed the parched shores of his consciousness. In his thoughts, the tanar'ri Axarthys had his hand pressed between hers, accompanied by a touch of her gaze as it traced the circle of his irises in stare. Her countenance consoled him in its gentleness, her floating footsteps leading them towards a tall, ivory gateway bathed in blue flames as she said, "The mortal plane I now depart. It is here I shall await you when from your realm you have passed."

"How will I find you?" In his thoughts he asked of her. She approached him, two fingers stroking the line of his jaw.

"Beloved of hunters, if find me you do not, then find _you_ I shall. Go now." Axarthys whispered. With her farewell came the collapse of his vision, thoughts reduced to the ash of the blackness of closed eyes. When they opened, and the feeling of hands upon his body remained, he wondered if the demon had stayed by him on the mortal plane as he died. Instead, where once her face filled the space above him, instead there stood clad in leather armor a man with unkempt hair and elven ears that attested to the racial grace he lacked. His lopsided smile greeted the hunter, the man's voice rumbling, "Best get you out of here before the whole place goes up in flames. You must be the last villager alive."

The hunter felt his body rise, and in his silence protested the aid of this stranger. He fought to have his vocal chords tremble in noise, only to release a gargle of blood in his throat. The stranger shifted the hunter's weight to his shoulder, carrying him as if he were a pig freshly slaughtered. Save the pig was dead, and the hunter lived, as badly as he wished to die. He needed to reach the gateway, to meet Axarthys Saintrowe, pursue her to the abyssal planes and in her small offers of hands to hold and smiles to bestow revel. He watched the earth move beneath, a trail of his blood left in the wake of the stranger. If he lived, would she find him? Would she follow? Would ever he walk the paths of the Abyss, exalted by its natives as a torturer of talent, a ranger of skill?

Did he even believe his vision as real, or simply a delusion of his blood loss?

His eyes shut once more as if committing such action would allow for his entry into infinite slumber. What felt an endless void- the nearest he'd been to death- as he was hauled through the woodlands of Neverwinter was filled in its cavity only by the throb of a hundred thousand agonies, numbered so many no distinctive ache existed, only the amalgamation of all his pain present. Between the desertion of the tanar'ri and the discovery of his fallen form by the stranger, a slur of recurrent memories replayed in the theatre of his mind, reliving them periodically as he was carried off. Between spans of consciousness, the hunter felt the shudder of the gate of a horse's canter beneath him, stirring his thoughts.

And what felt years later, the movement ceased. His ears caught the clicking of metal stirrups, harkened the creak of wooden panels beneath his feet, body escalating as he was carted up a flight of stairs. Then, the supple curvature of a feather-down mattress, wounds caressed by linen sheets. Soon, arctic water froze the burn of the punctures, poultice that smelt of rosemary plugging where the arrows filled prior. His body was lifted, replaced upon the coverlets, lifted, replaced, the tug of cotton round his middle, his bandage a giant hand that clutched him, choked his desire for death out of his lungs in a bleeding cough. Exhaling, the hunter found that the grip had loosened, the heat of the poultice tingling within his innards. The slimmest measure of comfort afforded to him, restless, weary sleep trailed, overtaking him for the few hours time had left to exhale before the first breath of dawn.

It was the speckles of sunlight through the curtains that awoke him on what he thought the morrow, playfully dancing in radiant patches cross the cocoa-colored bed linens. His neck strained upward, the ceiling above reflective in its white of the sun's rays. Beneath him, the wash basin ran red with the diluted blood cleaned from his wounds, a haunting reminder of the transpirations at Redfallow's Watch. For now, the ache of his wounds outweighed the hurt of his memories. In that consolation he was content.

Some time passed before the stranger returned to him. He'd entered with caution, closing the door quietly in its hinges as to not disturb his charge, traversing the chamber in hushed footsteps only heralded by the cry of leather bending in his movement. The hunter awakened. The stranger advanced, spoke, "You're awake after five days. Really got the wind knocked out of you, eh?" The stranger chuckled. Not as pleased, the hunter only narrowed the plane of his eyes in squint. The stranger leaned his weight against an adjoining wall, continuing, "A woman came in to see you. Said you would know who she was, so didn't give me names or nothing. Suspicious. Looked like… well, I'd say a tiefling".

_Her._

"I'll see her." Exhaustedly the hunter muttered. The stranger, nameless even still, returned with a nod, launching off the surface of the wall to walk from the room. Many moments passed before the handle of his door clicked, the sashay of a woman's stiletto boots tapping the floor underneath her soles. It was the tanar'ri, no longer a blurred apparition amidst the blaze of his village, now materialized. The clarity of her had him swallowing with difficulty, tense in her being. Her snowy hair tumbled from a knot at the base of her neck atop the mercilessly taut white leather of her body armor. She bowed her brow in what was deference and greeting, perching herself at the head of his bed.

"Are you real?" He uttered. One of her hands embraced his. Her touch reverberated through him, skin tingling in the sensation of her demonic power. What a faultless answer to his question, he thought.

"You remember me." She stated. He nodded. She then asked, "And my name?"

"A-a-a-"

"Axarthys," she cooed.

"Axarthys Saintrowe." He recalled aloud, "You swore to take me to the Abyss."

"But you lived, and I cannot take you there now." She said, "Fate does not allow me to kill you and bring you to my realm, thus I must await your death. My lord the Purging Duke has requested I remain with you until that time arrives and assure that if in death you cannot please my lord with your talent for torture, than in life I will aid you in usage of your gifts. If you do not refuse me, I would travel with you."

"And now?" He asked.

"I would stay by you and ease your pain." She offered, glancing at the basin. Returning to him, she assessed what injuries remained. She removed the coverlets, drawing away the gauze covering his wounds. Her hand slipped into the void between bandage and flesh, settling over the bloodied craters in his chest. He groaned in the sting of her touch. Soon, though, he could feel her not at all. She'd straddled his hips, fingers dipped into the holes left by the arrows as she leaned over him. The misery and exhaustion he felt fled him, the piercing agony of each of his wounds numbed by her touch. He hadn't realized her lips gnawing on his, her face dipping atop his to press it back onto the pillows with a kiss. When she drew from him she ordered, "Now sleep. Heal soon you will."

Within a week, he stood, walked, ate and drank. The stranger- Duncan, as now he named himself- thought it miraculous, the work of some divine force, not even considering accrediting the enigma that spent hours sleeping by Bishop's side, warming his body as he slept, caressing his wounds as to heal them. One afternoon, venturing outdoors to stroll the docks of Neverwinter, she appeared to him again, outfitted in an ivory gown that left her bare feet to reveal themselves at the bottom hem. She was standing towards the sea, her lengthy locks dancing like serpentine tendrils from her head in a cascade of white.

"Relieved I am to see you well." She smiled. She seemed a mirage.

"I would not be well without you." He admitted, "Though you may very well know it is not in my nature to thank others."

"And it is not in mine to receive gratitude. I am pleased enough to see you well again. Let us walk together." She said, taking his arm in hers. They strode the cobblestone paths of the Docks District, the patter of her bare feet on the earth a gentle drum echoing in his ears. He gazed down on her, marveled at how disturbing and lovely she was. So many had abandoned him, left his soul to wither. His morality had shriveled, his heart had wilted. His mentors and Luskan had beaten his body and shattered his spirit, leaving his faith a desolate wasteland parched of hope and human decency. The stranger- Duncan- had stolen the only reprieve he was ever offered, death. But Axarthys had restored his peace and lifted the first brick of his decimated life, setting it between his palms to gently order: _Go now, and live again_.

His faith was a fountain that could never again be refilled to free its waters into the desert of his soul. But at very best, Axarthys had offered up to him a chalice and once more he could taste what being emotionally quenched felt like. He wished to cling to her, to reclaim whatever of his soul, shattered at Red Fallow's Watch, lingered. Amidst the storm, she was an anchor.

Every moment lived in her presence he cherished, every touch he treasured. The months and then years carried on, and they ventured the outer reaches of Neverwinter's woods together. They had become insufferably dear allies. Bishop prayed their coexistence was endless, only pausing for him to pass onto her world in death. In time, however, his happiness would end.

It was many months afterward that Axarthys had led him into the depths of the forest, weaving a winding path through the trees. Stars in the night sky above sparkled as if glass upon the crystalline surface of a pond central to a glade in the wood. Axarthys stepped into its waters to the height of her knees, holding a hand of halting to Bishop. He stopped, watched her wade deeper. From the surface broke a demoness of wings a shade white and radiant, gown chiffon and cerulean pouring from her shoulders. She was in her entirety white; from horns to tresses to wings to skin, save her eyes, as pink as Axarthys's. The demon regarded Axarthys, then Bishop.

"You bring the mortal?" She asked.

"Necessary it is he hears of what now shall befall me." Axarthys answered. Her voice, once pleasantly serene if not soothingly emotionless, was entwined with sadness. The other tanar'ri beckoned the hunter, so he joined Axarthys in the pond, glancing to capture the fleeting sight of pain in his protector's eyes.

"Very well. Fond you must be of your pet, Lamb."

"Lamb?" Asked Bishop. The white-winged tanar'ri glared.

"Silence your pet." She hissed.

Axarthys took his hand, facing him to utter, "Lamb I am called by the Abyssal denizens. This is Bird. These are… titles, suppose I, for the intermediaries of the Abyss to this plane."

The other demon added, "All the Saintrowe demons have these names. Must you question us, pet?"

"I am no-"

"_Bishop_." Axarthys called softly. His lips immediately froze. Bird stepped forth from the water, reposing at its edge to dip her armored legs into the coolness of the liquid beneath. A hand was dipped into the pool, lifted to a puddle of liquid glass in her palm.

"You wish to know more of your orders, and for the pet to know as well. Allow me to be frank. You have been summoned to battle in the Blood Wars and cannot shirk the draft- it was you who was ordered specifically from my lady Loviatar and the Purging Duke, and precisely the demon I must bring to the Abyss. The Lady of Pain so does appreciate your skills and wishes to have them tested against the Baatezu."

"Diplomacy, not battle, is my sect, Bird." Axarthys said, "I am an intermediary."

"As am I, Lamb; as are _all_ Saintrowes. And yet have we a choice? Would you in audacity defy a goddess and in your foolishness betray the high tide in your heart that begs you to slay those of the Nine Hells?" Bird turned her hand, the water spilling from it. The ripples in the water's wake resounded in a trickle, followed by, "In four years, Lamb, we rendezvous at the gateway. Prepare yourself for war by traveling aside the pet. Our Lord and Lady will not have mercy on your dying soul should you fail."

"Answer the call I shall," whispered Axarthys, "I await our next meeting, Bird."

"As do I, my Lamb." Bird smiled. She slipped beneath the water's guise. In her departure Bishop faced Axarthys, brow quizzical and lips stiffened into an irritated line. The tanar'ri only returned his expression with an emotionless gaze, lifting her dress to tread the forest floor again, retracting her footprints towards the distant glow of the lantern-lined walks of Neverwinter under the hills they ventured. When at last they arrived at the peak of the escalations and began to descend, Bishop grasped one of her shoulders, stopping her. A gasp, and she whirled on her feet, turning about. Her bones were prominent, only masked by her skin's façade and the scarce sinew that coursed between them. Fragile she was, and his movement had startled her.

"Who was that demon back there, Axarthys?" He asked to no answer. He added, "And what are those names, those, those titles?"

She replied forthrightly, "I see not why you concern. Pet names we share as a mark of our familial bond. My mother and contact she is. She is Nonah Naxcthre of sin Saintrowe, the commandant of my demonic host."

"Demonic host? Like….like a choir of angels?"

"Like a legion of soldiers." She responded annoyed.

"But why did you take me to her? So I know that our days together are numbered? To see that your masters' whim is fickle, and you are shuffled about, mission to mission?" He said. Her head shook, locks swaying.

"So that you see the time we share is short and precious." She murmured passionately, as if he would remember them.

The words meant nothing to the hunter then, nor did they resound in the emptiness of his heart or the void of his soul for many days, weeks, months, years. The phrase detached from memory, erased by time as the tanar'ri traveled with him. Through forest and dungeon alike they ventured, the sound of the shatter of her ivory-leather whip against enemy shields the echo of the drone of his arrows in flight. Many a foe did they condemn to the rack and iron maiden, often sacrificing finger nails pried from hands of enemies or eyeballs extracted from sockets as offerings to the Purging Duke. Tactful words poured from the tanar'ri's lips many a time saved them the sweat and blood of battle, however much he craved it, only later to be rewarded fully enjoying her naked body in his bed, lying beside her unwounded himself. It was then that in moans rumbled from the pit of his vocal chords, a symphony to their rhythmic oscillations, he felt his urge to kill satiated in the cradle of her legs. She would not have had him go unfulfilled, and in the morning he would wake to the assurance of her slumbering form adjacent. Lust bound them in relationship, sex the weapon the Lamb used to his pleasure.

But even that satisfaction could not compare to the nearness they shared. Where once he was admonished for his rebelliousness, she had praised him. Where once he was despised and loathed he was in her loved and cherished. Cheered she would in his victories and wept she would in his defeats. She was his friend, his lover, his companion, and never once his leader. Restored he was to confidence, to pride, to happiness in her embrace, both emotion and physical.

He relished their company, blissful in ignorance to the four years' time that swept past them. And when it had come, the adventure ceased. There was no more war, no more love to make. She had taken his fingers, entangled them in hers, and led him in silence to the pond that Bird had materialized from ages past. Axarthys entered the waters to her waist, beckoning him to join her. They embraced in the chill of the pool, tears of exodus soaking their cheeks where the water beneath did not reach. All that cared for him fleeted, and as much as he grasped onto it, like grains of sand it slipped from his hands. She faded into the water, leaving him only with the words, "I will return for you, my hunter."

Then the four years _were_ short and precious, and he could only lie broken at the shore of the pond, gazing into it as if he could capture one last glimpse of her snowy hair and stormy skin. He never did.

-

Author's Notes:

Sorry there was some delay in posting because I was traveling -I had most of this chapter pre-written before leaving so I could post as soon as I returned- but the chapter update time will be about the same for the following chapter. I invest a great deal of time and effort into my work to ensure the highest quality writing and would not post anything I wouldn't myself read, so please excuse the slow updates. Aside from that, hope you enjoyed as always and happy reading!

-Valah

PS- An author tidbit: it killed me not to get to write as Nevalle this time around!

_**UPDATE:**_ The rating has been changed back to T. I decided after rereading this chapter and beginning the next that the content in this chapter was not strong enough alone to merit an M rating, as the following chapters will be T if not lower in rating. Thanks for putting up with the changes!


	3. Interlude I: Chapter Two

Interlude I: Chapter Two

The morning light had precluded continuation of the night, persisting as the faint glow swelled into the vibrancy of noon only weathered by the slight overcast lingering over the docks. Blacklake had slumbered late; only few of its elderly, early-rising nobles purveyed the freshly buffed floors of fanciful boutiques and the perfectly transparent glass of the Academy's windows, giving sight to young mages immersed in their lofty magical studies. The guards, however, had in their entirety been awake since daybreak, lining the streets in columns of silvery chain mail and gleaming shields. Amongst these guards, three of the Nine plodded the walks of the city. Of their number one was a man of no more than thirty years of age, dark of hair and heart, pretentious and proud, Sir Darmon. Beside him strode the raven-headed, crystal-eyed knight Lady Adelaide Cryhart, small and strong of stature with ears that pointed as to admit to her half-elven blood, her lips twisted in perpetual disdain. At the right was Nevalle, their captain, his long sword's hilt weaved in the grasp of his hand.

Adelaide hissed, "I grow weary of these sweeps of the district. Do the nobles think every time a trial rolls about that the reverberations of justice will send waves of criminals through their community? Oh, pardon me; allow me to be more specific, _demons_. Are they being serious, or do they want to assure their taxes are being wisely spent having us act as their personal body guards?"

Darmon chuckled, the enduring drunkenness in the sound possessing undeniable clarity, "'Bodyguard' is our job, Adelaide. They just call us something else because we wear these lovely blue tunics and everyone else just dons armor. Besides, I _could_ get paid for spending years out in Luskan territory killing rogues and pirates with only scurvy to keep me company, _or_ I could be paid the same to take morning strolls with a sword and a handful of drinking companions in Neverwinter. I prefer the latter. So what there's the occasional trial and bit of trouble with demons? It's the only action we ever get."

"If your desire a more dangerous task, you should be pleased to know that I spoke to the tanar'ri Axarthys last night of her relationship with the ranger Bishop. We'll need to scour the hazardous Neverwinter wood to find him and bring him here as a witness." Nevalle announced. Darmon's jaw fell.

"Oh, praise Tyr! Are you telling me we have _real _work to do!?" He gasped.

"I'm not trudging through the forest to dig up some backwoods-thumping thug." Adelaide growled.

"I am curious as to what Lord Nasher would think about your words." Nevalle mused aloud. Adelaide and Darmon both leapt in front of him, eyes in a narrowed gaze as they glared jointly, their hatred of Nevalle's sense of duty all that kept them from killing one another.

"Rat to him and your tongue is _mine_, Nevalle." Adelaide snapped.

"You know, go ahead. Tell all, _Nelly_, and then proceed to watch me care." Darmon grinned. Tempted Nevalle was to draw his sword completely from its scabbard, his fingers coiling taut over the hilt, but it was his self-control and patience with his mutinous and pigheaded peers that led him to replace the blade, sparing Blacklake the spectacle. Aside that, the call of a charging knight from Castle Never alerted the three, and they stood at attention.

It was Casavir, still clad in partial plate mail from training squires, that had bolted to them, hands on his knees as he bent downwards, heaving air. Adelaide needed only glance up to Darmon to signal his sharp-witted reply, "This had better be something _dreadful_, Casavir, because I'm not chasing bandits through the Neverwinter wood."

"The tanar'ri fled her prison cell." He wheezed, "The-the lock was still intact, and there was-was no sign of a violent escape."

"Wonderful. There's a demon on the loose in Blacklake." Adelaide bemoaned, "I can only _imagine_ the royal-sized noble _fits_ we're going to have to put up with now. I can just _see _the hellfire as some geriatric wizard conjures up baatezu to kill that damned tanar'ri, and I'm not about to get involved in a miniature Blood War. Nevalle, should I alert the guards?"

"No. That would only panic the whole of the city. Axarthys has been weakened from traveling so far from Waterdeep; she can be overpowered. Each of you, go alone and find her. Casavir, alert the rest of the Nine and stay in the throne room with Lord Nasher. The rest of you, search the castle first, then the catacombs, and only then all of Blacklake." Nevalle ordered, "If any of you find her, turn her over to me. From this point, she is under _my sole _jurisdiction."

"Was I so incapable of controlling her?" Casavir bitterly replied.

"She escaped, correct?" Nevalle chastised, "Now all of you, do as I say. Find her."

"At once, Sir Nevalle." Casavir muttered.

"Of course." Droned Adelaide.

"I can already smell the brewing of a demonic goose hunt." said Darmon wistfully. He drew his blade, running its surface through his leather-gloved palm as he sauntered off followed by the ambling Adelaide, Casavir close in their wake. Nevalle sighed; had he not been merciful to Axarthys? Why would she act uncooperative, as intelligent as she was, knowing the consequences of her actions would be both the punishment for escaping and the tainting of her image at trial? He, who had hunted for her three interminable years, who had in place of anger been kind to her where many would not, was not so rewarded with her compliance. He paced back to the palace, a flicker of admiration stirring the unlit candle of his heart. Proud she was, too proud to be imprisoned within the confines of a stone and iron box.

He then felt confident that she had not strayed far. Diplomacy and politics were her game, not war, and for that surely she would not have battled her way out of Neverwinter. She simply would not be caged. Nevalle ascended the staircase into the highest levels of Castle Never where the echo of the Nine's voices had not touched. The only noise that pervaded the air was the thud of his boots on the wooden floors and the hushed, calmed breaths entering and departing his lungs. As he drew nearer to his own chambers, he heard the dulcet hum of song, like the plucked strings of a harp. He was subtle as he slipped through the threshold, closing the door to the negligible click of the hinge. Axarthys alighted on his desk, her gossamer mint gown like water falling about her shoulders and around the edge of the table, her bare ankles encompassed by ropes of glass shards. She had a pair of his boots in her lap that she arduously was polishing.

Momentarily her gaze collided with his, her eyes ablaze in a ferocity countered by the serene sweep of her hands over the leather of his boots. She halted in her work, hands folded lithely in her lap. She rebuked, "Your people are as foolish as they are cruel. You would have done better to cage me in a display within your zoo."

"That could easily be arranged, Axarthys." He sternly admonished. His threat brought a sharp smile to the corners of her lips. She swept the papers off his desk to sprawl cross the rigid oak beneath, his boots on her stomach as she traced the seams. Nevalle said, "You are proud, and in your audacity, you have made that more than clear. It is time you return to your cell before all of Neverwinter runs awry."

"Pride does not compel me, it is _suffering_," She insisted, "I waste in a cell; I cannot withstand the thickness of the air and the dampness of the walls."

"And what would you have me do? Give you free reign of all Blacklake? Allow you to run wild through the halls of Castle Never, to roam freely as you are?" He responded, frustrated, "There is nothing I can do until your fate is decided by Lord Nasher."

"Then kill me, and no longer will I run from my prison to trouble you and your city so. I surrender here before you. Do what you will, but I will return to no cage. I am befitting of no one's menagerie where I am to be kept eternally within bars and rock to rot for your pleasure." She declared, "Three years you have hunted me. Take my life; it is yours."

"I cannot kill you," Nevalle sighed, faced once more with the core of her debate. He walled his mind, blocking the thought from his subconscious. Yet somehow, the thought seemed to creep through the cracks in his ignorance, and now he had once more to speak about it to someone. And it was _her._ He explained, "Axarthys, your situation is not so easily determined. You are noble on your plane, and you are an intermediary between our two worlds. You are of value, Axarthys. We cannot risk open war again if you are killed. Neverwinter has only begun to heal from battle, and so you must be caged until a solution is decided. I think there is no justice in allowing you to suffer, I do, and I have made my opinion clear to my lord. But what else am I do to, for I cannot keep you anywhere but a cell."

Axarthys's gaze softened with his words. Her stare was hesitant warmth that permeated the space between them, the embers of a flame reduced to a harmless, gentle glow that could if provoked burst into an inferno. She asked, "And you would rid me of my suffering after the three years' of it I dealt you?"

"I hold no grudge against you for having hunted you so long, Axarthys," He replied, "In my task I served my people, as is my duty, as is my joy."

"Then we are much the same." She nodded, and he reciprocated. Indeed, she too fiercely believed in her people and their cause- otherwise the Knight Captain still would have strode the walks of Neverwinter, and the tanar'ri would never have filled the presence of his chambers, polishing his soiled boots. He offered a gloved hand and she accepted, dismounting his desk to stand, diminutive as she was, beside him. Barely five feet in height and a hundred pounds in weight, her miniature hands were porcelain in his.

"I would show you the gardens of Neverwinter," He said, "If you agreed to continue this conversation."

-

Sir Darmon had no desire to pursue any wrongdoer, demon or ranger. He was no cat hired to exterminate rats from the cellar pits, after all- he was a knight, one of the Nine, and felt there were greater tasks to be concerned with if tasks were so obligatory and, for that matter, unquestionably crucial to the survival of Neverwinter. What was one tanar'ri freed? Neverwinter had taxed itself three years' time to seek the monster out, and that had been time enough. Frolicking about the castle grounds in search of magical horned beasts resounded childhood games and fairy tales. Besides, Nevalle himself had elaborated on the frailty of the demoness, even admitting one knight was surely capable of subduing her. Even is escaped she did, survive long she would not outside the walls of the city, not with rogue sorcerers amidst the caves and rivers eager to assume she was a succubus come to satisfy them.

And as far as the ranger, why bother, thought Darmon. No demon deserved the right of a witness in a Neverwinter court, and a fair trial seemed laughable when the accused was a tanar'ri guilty of the murder of the Knight Captain. Was there truly a _doubt _over the verdict that witnesses were needed? And _why_ witnesses, why witnesses when the demon herself admitted entirely to the crime? Darmon wouldn't be tromping through sludge of bogs and silt of creeks to track what tracked for a living. A score of heavily armored knights would not be able to outfox a trippingly outfitted ranger who knew the woods as if its map were imprinted in the very arteries of his being. Darmon wasn't going to embark on an impossible quest of any sorts.

Of course, he never had to.

Darmon had declared to himself that quiet rebellion would be best. He'd scarcely swept the prison for the demon when he slipped past the gates and pretended to scope Blacklake, walking its edge until the far reaches of the district. There he exited into the forest, flask at hand, to steal countless swigs from the iron tin. He stumbled on the mossy earth, crushing the chaste white flowers that grew unbeknownst to him below. Wandering through the wood, he heard the rustle of leaves as the trees' canopy shuddered in the breeze above, nearly masking the shuffle of feet that approached him. Darmon thought it a deer at first, for the step was so nimble. He sank to the grass, sprawling out to enjoy the last of the flask's contents.

Footsteps.

The noise was surely human. They were slowed and not committed with vigilance. Darmon's eyes scanned the wood, but nothing. He peered left, then a flash of black right. When his eyes had retraced the movement, there was no suspicious presence.

"Is anyone there?" He anxiously called.

"Maybe. Depends if you plan on arresting me." A voice rumbled in response. 

Darmon bounded to his feet, wheeling around in a semi-circle, shouting, "If you are some bandit, I am Sir Darmon of the Nine, and-"

"-You're going to smite me, are you? With what? Your knightly code? Your holiness? The last time I ran across a knight, well, his _chivalry_ got him as far as Old Owl Well, and he ran there with his tail tucked between his legs." The man emerged from the trees, his almond-colored eyes pale enough a shade of brown that his pupils were as piercing in their stare as any predator, "And that is about _all _you'll find between a knight's legs, so silence your threats before I do by force."

"We are near the gates of Neverwinter. Kill me, and you'll soon find yourself on the end of a Greycloak blade." Darmon growled.

"What threats. A pity I've heard so many from your ilk- they may have actually sounded _imposing_ to another ranger." He said.

_Ranger_. Darmon asked, "You're the one the Nine hunt then, the ranger. Bishop?"

"As if I'd give you my name." He snorted.

But his voice was not so convincing, and in its delicate hesitance Darmon found the upper hand. Surely this was he, for his appearance was unmistakable- none shared the strangeness of his eyes' color nor the prowess he clearly bore treading the wood in utter quiet as he did. But the ranger would not have approached him in usual circumstance- he would, as even the ranger admitted, been arrested for his treason to Neverwinter's Knight Captain. No, there was something he sought in the risk of beseeching the Nine. Darmon knew precisely what the hunter desired.

"No names? That is, unless we had something you wanted." Darmon smiled. Having gained the upper hand, he stepped forward, confident, as the ranger retraced his steps backwards, eyes narrowing in question as the knight said, "Because then names are necessary. Maybe like the name…oh, _Axarthys Saintrowe_."

It struck the ranger. He tightened his jaw, eyes suddenly pried of their ferocity, nearly susceptible. His hands fell from his weapons and to his sides. He ventured guardedly, "I expect you take me to her _now_."

"Oh? You speak the words as if _you _are in a bargaining position. That is not the case, Bishop. That isyour name, correct?" Darmon said, "Don't take me wrong; I'll let you see her, the demon. I am simply that _charitable_. But, you see, the Nine were meant to track you down, and since I stumbled across you, that puts me in a questionable situation. I left Neverwinter of my own personal devices, and finding you so easily would look rather suspicious."

"Hmm. Your reputation tarnished. I don't see how that's my problem." The ranger growled. Darmon sauntered closer, arms crossed as he huffed, victory scribbled on his countenance.

"It will be when it comes to her." Darmon grinned, "She's striking, your demon. Imagine how many guards have enjoyed her beauty. In fact, I wonder how much business Neverwinter's brothels have lost, considering you can have Axarthys for free."

The ranger's teeth were clenched beyond closed lips. He'd wordlessly submitted, only for the tanar'ri's betterment. He breathed deep, hissing, "What must I do to see her?"

Darmon shrugged casually, ordering, "Wait here in the forest for a few weeks, and then I'll meet you, chain you to a horse, and parade you into Neverwinter. Make it appear as if a real apprehension of a criminal, the dramatic capture of the champion to Axarthys Saintrowe by me, Sir Darmon of the Nine."

"How heroic." Bishop uttered. Darmon laughed.

"Heroism has long been dead."

-

"It is Neverwinter's gardeners that are referred to in the name 'City of Skilled Hands.' I think that sounds rather dwarven, a reference to their capability in crafting fine weapons and armor. Given, the name 'Jewel of the North' reminds me of a dragon's hoard, and that isn't any better." Nevalle explained as Axarthys's lips gaped at the sprawling gardens of Castle Never. She smelled the nectar of every flower, felt the texture of every leaf between her fingers, listened to the melody of every bird and drone of every bee that made the gardens teem with life. Such carefully manicured flora astonished her.

"My home is on a vineyard," she remarked, "and never have I seen such…_growth_, such incomparable life. And I have harvested many plants, none so lovely as these. To think all year you are blessed with such blossoms, I envy this."

"As do many. Did you say, in passing, you lived on vineyard? Outside Waterdeep?" He asked. She nodded animatedly, thrilled not by his words but by the topiaries of dolphins rising from the waves of shrubs below. Axarthys stood beneath it, dwarfed by it. Seas of lilacs and lavender scented the air with a perfume distinctive, their indigo crafting the falsified waters under the hedge sculptures. Their color had been faded in its vivacity by the setting sun, and realizing the time, Nevalle suggested, "You promised you'd continue our conversation, and thus far we've only discussed the entirety of Neverwinter's history and… flowers."

"And we will." She answered, pointing to a maze of hedges ahead, "There, were few can hear our words, and so I may still enjoy the gardens."

"We won't be able to discuss _anything_ if we're focused on navigating through there. The hedges will shift about if you walk through it." He groaned. But he submitted, and followed the sound of her feet pressing into moist lawn, then strolling the cobblestone path through the wrought-iron gates that marked the beginning of the labyrinth between the first row of bushes. He pursued Axarthys through the first passages of plant and earth, rounding a corner to see her awaiting him, settled on the grass with her knees properly bent beneath her. He sunk to the ground adjacent her, saying, "Can we speak now?"

"Ask as you will." She responded, her voice dulcet with the happiness that came with having eased her frustration in the gardens. The rainbow of flora, the pinks of the roses and the whites of the lilies and the oranges of the chrysanthemums, had been a symphony for her sight, and had erased the suffering that so plagued her capacity to reason. Nevalle was certain it would make speaking to her smoother.

He began, "Why didn't you resist my men when we captured you? You never once tried to escape, even when we were traveling."

"It was a path to Neverwinter. There I knew Bishop was. I shall admit I longed to see my hunter once more. I missed him so; my heart grew sore as his absence persisted knowing he prowled the very woods of this city, and some happiness would be afforded to me should I have rediscovered his company. Never could I have traveled so far alone, and I have no allies- save Bishop- on this plane. You were the path Fate chose to bring me to him." She replied.

"Yet you knew what awaited you in Neverwinter." He said.

"I knew torment, suspected interrogation, considered execution. At the moment you and your knights cantered through my lands I was willing to sacrifice myself to those agonies for my own lonesomeness and for Bishop's sake. Now I find I am detached from my solitude and Bishop. It is as if I have been severed from what I should have suffered for, and I wish not to suffer for a cause that is, at best, fogged in my memory. Not even pain itself consoles me, as I serve the Lady and Lord of Pain no longer. They are forgotten in my heart. I am a pariah of my world and of yours." She uttered, shifting to rest her chin atop the knoll of her knees, musing, "Never would I surrender to anyone those deepest thoughts. But if it saves me pain, then they are yours. I ask you treat the knowledge well."

"You have my word." He swore. In his sincerity she believed him.

"None but Bishop have treated me kindly, not once in all my years in Faerun. At best I have been treated with indifference. Your courtesy humbles me." She said, smiling sensitively, "Only the bravest of men would walk a demon through their lands and show them their flowers. That is why, of all the Nine, I sought your voice- for you speak with honesty and act in fairness to all beings, and that is what shall bring me justice, not the fanatical words of a paladin. I cling to the anchor you have provided me in this storm because it is all I feel I have. The slimmest margin of fairness you offer… it remedies my desperation."

"And that is why you appeared in my chambers and not, say, Lady Adelaide's?"

"Yours was the only room I recall the path to." She laughed musically. To hear the first of her joy brought him relief. Nevalle had washed the paint from the sullied canvas of her dealings with Neverwinter, and felt with that very noise she'd opened the portal to the world he would have to enter to see out her verdict. He had just gathered the first of her trust. If now he was wary, he would have plenty to report to Lord Nasher.

He thought a while after her laughter's resounding had dissipated, considering his next question. Her words absorbed, her aura peeling the layer of nervousness in his questioning, positive anxiety built from the thrill of dallying in these politics with her. Any man could wield a sword; very few could wield diplomacy. In this, he chose the words, "You have a last name, Saintrowe. I have known demons to have only one name. Are you descended from a lineage of tanar'ri?" 

"Ah, you ask if I have allies in the Abyss." She replied. He choked on the fear that his words had not been clandestine, but she was unaffected, continuing, "None that would have you and your people killed. Intermediaries we are, not warriors, not soldiers. You fear open war; you make that clear. You think my lineage would risk open war for me, lose the precious business we carry out between our worlds? That is the very source of our wealth. My demise would only have me revived in the Abyss to once more deal between mortals and demons. It is the _hierarchy_ of the Abyss that would rally its legions against you, seeing my death as a threat to their eyes upon this plane, similar to Blooden's… situation."

The puzzle's splinters assembled in Nevalle's mind, and he breathed as the images became clear, materializing into some kind of epiphany. He thought, _And now it all is clear. Surely the Abyss would battle for Axarthys, surely for her value as an- _

A whirr in his ear, a thud in the earth, and an arrow descended to puncture the ground. He retracted from his thoughts and glanced up. There was the clamor of voices outside the maze, Adelaide's amongst them. Another hail of arrows fell, and Nevalle dodged them scarcely. Axarthys had straightened her back against the wall of hedges, eyes wide and expression twisted in a sort of amused fury. She hissed, "Your people are completely _out of their minds_."

They were looking for her still. Nevalle hadn't taken her back.

As another wave of arrows landed, Nevalle scooped the tanar'ri in an arm and raced through the maze, attempting to recall the way to the gateway. The enchanted plants shifted, making the course of the labyrinth variable. Cursing under his breath, Axarthys in tow, he rounded a corner, dove through the opening between shrubs that soon after coiled their roots and conjoined. Both had tumbled on the ground, Axarthys bounding to her feet before Nevalle had to declare, "This is utter _madness_."

"They have to run out of arrows sometime." He noted hopefully, just as another downpour of the projectiles landed behind them. Each of them glanced to the freshly-laid row of fletched poles, and then to one another. Nevalle added, "And Adelaide will not treat you, or I, kindly."

"Halt! Men, I hear voices." Adelaide growled from outside the bushes. The orchestra of metallic clanking of armor enclosed around one side of the maze, and Adelaide's cerulean eyes peered through the leafy barrier. Had her face not been so obscured by it, Nevalle would have been greeted with not only her voice but the mocking grin plastered cross her pessimistic mouth. Instead, he only heard, "Ah, Sir Nevalle. Pardon my usage of force. Had I been aware you decided to play hide-and-seek with your prisoner in our garden's maze, I would not have _shot at you_."

He guiltily replied, "No-no offense taken, Lady Adelaide. Excellent work, in fact. I wouldn't have thought to, well, search the hedge maze."

"Precisely why you are on that side of the hedge and I am on this one." She answered, "Now I would suggest you take the second right, next left and continue to the first right out of this mess. Tread slowly and maybe these bushes will be merciful enough to release you. Be not _so_ slow, however- Lord Nasher has the whole of the city under highest alert, with guards deployed in full force outside each gate. You'd best escort your charge to the dungeon and go to his office with haste."

Nevalle turned to leave, Axarthys's wrist clutched in his fist. Adelaide called behind them, "Little tanar'ri should learn to stay where she is caged, and maybe she wouldn't have risked an arrow lodged in her lungs. Wouldn't want to end up like your human-pet Bishop at Red Fallow's Watch, would you, precious _Lamb_?"

Axarthys followed Nevalle, glancing over her shoulder in her gait to reply to Adelaide in a murmur, "'Tis a fate incomparable to what would befall you if ever again our paths cross."

-

Nevalle stood before Lord Nasher's throne with head reverently bowed, more so then in fear of being reprimanded for not returning Axarthys to him and sending Neverwinter's guard into an unnecessary state of emergency than his usual deference. His hands tangled behind his back, fingers knotted as Nasher watched him for seconds that seemed infinite in their time. Finally he said, "I am not angry for what you did. You chose to seize the chance to question the tanar'ri when it was best, from what Adelaide has reported."

"I never mean to disappoint. I live to serve Neverwinter." He responded, reassured. He lifted his head, hands freed to his sides.

"I know, and that is why I trust your judgment in this matter. Your decision to prolong your time with the demon I am sure was useful and worth the chaos. Let us be blunt, then. Did any information come of this meeting?" He asked.

"I came to a conclusion on her case from what she provided. The Abyssal Lords value her. Because she is an intermediary, she has the capability to imbed herself deep into the politics of humankind, to act as the eyes into a world no other demons can see. That is why they simply ordered the Knight Captain dead- Blooden was of lesser importance to them, and given she was trapped in the Haven, she no longer served such a valuable purpose. The tanar'ri wouldn't be willing to deploy an army over her loss," Nevalle explained, his voice empowered by the piecing of his findings, as if the veil had been lifted and the smoke and mirrors dismissed. Three years' uncertainty over his assignment had been cleared. He continued, propelled by the sight of the end of the struggle, "And the very _decision _of the Abyssal lord of sending Axarthys to execute the Knight Captain speaks to her position. The Knight Captain could have easily fended off a demon, but Axarthys was different, because she was so involved in the human world. She was able to use her association with Bishop, what no other demon had, to locate and efficiently kill."

"And should we kill this tanar'ri, who you say is more prized than Blooden, then Neverwinter could be in danger of war, if only so demons would be satiated in the carnage." Nasher sighed, shaking his head. Nevalle was confused in the disappointment crossing his lord's face, and even more distressed to hear him say, "These findings are astute, Nevalle, but while we now have an explanation to our dilemma, we have no solution."

"There is more," Nevalle said, "In passing, she mentioned she no longer served the Abyssal lords that ordered her to kill the Knight Captain. Indeed, a statement that could be a lie, but I believe her. She was commanded to fight in the Blood Wars for three years, only resurfacing for our forces to capture her. She is an intermediary, not a warrior, and being drafted into such violent, senseless battle surely would challenge her submission to her lords. Additionally, I feel she trusts me a great deal tell me of her forgotten devotion to them."

"After only a few days, so little I could count their number on a single hand, she has such faith in you?" Nasher asked, critical of his knight. Nevalle shook his head, leaning into his seat beside the fire with a look of lost hope in Axarthys's case.

"We traveled together many days, weeks from Waterdeep as well. I was kind enough to her to coax words, and I feel she sees little choice but to admit the truth lest she remain imprisoned here." Nevalle contested, "Whatever the case, for her cooperation, she has given us more than enough information that can be used to our benefit. And that brings me to another matter at hand. She wishes to be freed of her cell and withheld elsewhere. I must maintain her trust if I am to successfully extract more information from her. Seeing to her request will assure this."

"I suppose the justice she will soon face is suffering enough," Nasher replied, thoughtful in his words, "Save I will be a hypocrite if I do not provide the same to other criminals during their trials."

"This case is no trial. There is no judge and all the evidence we have is opinions, stories and histories. Grant her a decent bed- it is a small price for the upper hand." He pleaded. Nasher rapped his armored fingers against the arm rest, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Never had one detained in Neverwinter altered the standards they were subject to. And yet so much in the city had changed, so much hope lost rekindled, wars won still mourned. Battle had deflowered the city. It was a new era, and at the dawn of it, the past's farewell was difficult. Neverwinter physically faced the harbinger of rebirth, a despised tanar'ri who in the single sawing of a sword had literally and figuratively cut down what stood for the previously untainted Neverwinter. The memories were still so potent, the feelings so strong. The harbinger had fallen much too soon.

Nasher nodded in agreement with his knight after the span of silence. It was his acknowledgement of Nevalle's request, but it too was submission to the renaissance of Neverwinter, the beginning, the world made anew. He then raised his hand, waved it, and dismissed Nevalle. He settled deep into his throne, scanned the chamber. Once, the Knight Captain had stood trial here. Once, her orders were issued from the walls of this room, echoed in Nasher's own booming voice. Here, a tanar'ri had entered where once a hero strode. Here, a demon was feared where the Harborman was loved. And it would be here that the last fragments of the past would be locked away forever with the fate of the tanar'ri sealed.

-

Author's Notes:

Okay, this was my roadblock chapter. I rewrote that damn boot-polishing scene SEVEN TIMES OVER!_** Personally, I never want to think about Nevalle's boots EVER AGAIN!! He can go barefoot for the rest of eternity!!**_ Now that I've made that…um, obvious, I'm excited with the end result of this chapter. It really opens up the plot and sets us up for the coming chapters as I had hoped. The next update shouldn't take as long, and it should be even more juicy (given this one was just….super-plot).

Also, while I'm not asking for serious critiques, I _love _to hear your reflections on plot and character. You can always review or email me anytime with your thoughts- I'd be happy to hear from you. 

Happy reading,

Valah


	4. Interlude II: Chapter Three

Interlude II: Chapter Three

It was pouring outdoors.

Axarthys had known it would; she felt it in the tips of her fingers, in the dampness hanging in the air that weighed down the snowy lashes about her eyes. Her joints had become stiffened in the slightest, protesting the foul weather, anticipating fearfully the downpour even as the tanar'ri irritably flexed her limbs to stop the ache. She'd predicted the rain for two weeks' time since the very day she'd been permitted her own room. It was there in the sumptuous guest quarters, poised on the velvet quilt over her bed, that she watched the puddles envelope holes in the cobblestone paths of Blacklake. She unblinkingly stared at the rain, listening to it patter on the roof above her head. Her keen ears captured the bemoaning words of guards stationed at the highest towers outdoors. Their voices consoled the apprehension prying at her mind. She feared no justice of a Neverwinter court, yet as it drew nearer Axarthys's heart pounded. She blamed her anxiety on impatience.

But, in truth, it was Bishop's absence that disconcerted her the day of sentencing. Who would stand as her witness? Could she prolong Nasher's decision enough that the ranger could be found? Would Neverwinter wait for a despised demon to find her defender? Irritation stirred within her. Was Bishop so ignorant to her need of him? Was he so sightless? Surely he knew of her presence in the city. Surely he would not abandon her, not after four years' servitude to him. Not after the embraces they'd shared, not after the love they'd made, not after acquiescent lips joined in a love undeniable and unspoken. Axarthys banished the thoughts. She could not bear them.

A knock at her door and not a moment enough for her to speak did Nevalle pass the threshold, glancing to her with a quizzical stare. Perplexed, she cocked her head. He said, "You are to be present in the throne room in a quarter hour and yet you aren't even dressed."

Axarthys glanced down at herself, cloaked in nothing but a chemise and a corset whose cords lay slack across the span of her back. She demurely bit her bottom lip, answering, "My maid was not sent to string my corset. I was awaiting her arrival when you entered."

Nevalle growled under his breath, wishing to say a few words about women's vanity that did not escape his mouth. Instead he beckoned her to stand on the floor, putting his knee into the small of her back. He gathered the ribbons into his hands, pulling tautly enough to feel her ribs pressed together. Tying the remaining ribbon at the base of the corset he said, "For further reference, you no longer _have _a maid because she refuses to serve the murderer of the Knight Captain."

"I shall remember to have you string it, then." She replied, digging through her traveling trunk to select a dress of opal brocade. When she'd draped it over her shoulders and through her arms, adding a printed-silk fan tied at her belt, slipping her feet into white leather slippers she turned to face a vaguely exasperated Nevalle.

"You'll be polishing many more pairs of boots if you expect that." He responded. She walked past him to her mirror, dabbling rosewater around her neck. Axarthys purveyed her reflection. She coiled a tress of hair around her horn and through a finger, freeing it to tuck behind a pointed ear. She looked to Nevalle before moving into the hall. There was the thinnest mask of tension over his visage. It combated her stress enough to compel her to walk with poise to her fate. Down a spiraling staircase and through a corridor, the rain outside had become more furious, beating so hard the reassuring noise of Nevalle's confident step was deafened.

Axarthys swallowed her tension, feeling a knot of it tangling in her throat. How would she stand before Neverwinter alone? How would she face Nasher and his people with no witnesses, no hand to hold as these mortals defiled her name and made a villain of her? Their criticisms and their hearsay would sully the Saintrowe name, stain her eternally. And Bishop would be oblivious, weaving the wood, unknowing of her fate. Betrayal tore at her, and she stopped, between sorrow and rage, to face Nevalle.

"I cannot go." She declared.

"You must. I am ordered to see you to court and I will not defy the orders of Lord Nasher." He replied sternly. She shook her head fiercely, white locks swaying acutely.

"I go to stand alone, undefended by my champion Bishop, to listen to _your people_ bemoan my very existence, to hear the paladin Casavir sully my name with a tale of murder so romanticized no bard or poet could have concocted such an epic tale." Axarthys proclaimed. Nevalle stepped forward, taking her roughly by the shoulders. She gasped in the ferocity of his hands upon her, frail bones and fragile frame shivering.

"_Axarthys_." He demanded, and her lips locked together. He slackened his grip, saying, "I will present all that you told me to the Nine and Nasher. Furthermore I will allow no injustice to befall you. You shall be heard fairly and no slander will come to you. Now, will you go willingly or will I have to force you?"

"I walk willingly." She uttered, lips quivering. He nodded silently, moving to walk beside her, a hand still wrapped around her shoulder. There was strength in his grasp that spoke to his aggravation, yet there was a courtesy that was telling of his slim sympathy for her. Whatever his emotions, Axarthys's hurricane of thoughts numbed beneath his touch. She was grateful for it. They continued towards the throne room, where he released her of his hand and motioned for her to enter.

The Nine, convened in a deluge of blue tunics, plastered with the eye of Neverwinter, stared her down as she entered. When she knelt before Nasher in front of the summoning circle, she said, hushed, "I have not summoned my kin as is my power as a tanar'ri, have not laid a hand of foul intention on your people, and in my restraint feel I deserve to decline being caged as if a demon conjured."

"What next? Shall she be quartered in extravagant rooms and served by our very citizens? Ah, _of course_. She already is." Adelaide mocked loudly. Guffaws broke the room, echoed from the mouths of many of the Nine. Axarthys peered to Nevalle. His mouth had retained a sober line.

"I will grant her wish," Nasher thundered, eyes on Adelaide. Laughter was crushed under the crown of Neverwinter. He faced the tanar'ri, "You have been compliant thus far. Do not test my leniency."

"Thank you." She mouthed. He continued, only gently regarding her.

"As all of the Nine have been briefed on what information Nevalle has retrieved from the tanar'ri, I may rightfully assume you are each intimately familiar with the details of the report, and so we shall begin today with evidence countering the story of the demon to suggest a higher punishment be dealt. Though I wished to postpone these testimonies until tomorrow, Lady Cryhart requested she be allowed to speak today." Nasher announced. Adelaide slouched in her seat, one leg poised at the edge of the chair and the other casually extended. Her arms outstretched, spread cross the arms of the chair. Her posture was predatory.

"Thank you, Lord Nasher," she began, "As we are all aware of the… _situation_ that occurred at Red Fallow's Watch between this demon and Bishop from Nevalle's first most _comprehensive _report, I'll not waste my breath on the whole tale. I will tell you I was there when this tanar'ri's ranger tried to butcher the whole village."

The Nine traded intrigued glances. There was silence, shattered by Nevalle as he retorted, "That is a fact related to Bishop's case and should be presented at his trial-if he ever stands trial at all, which is unlikely. As far as our information tells, it very well could have been Luskan at fault for the destruction of Red Fallow's Watch. But that has precious little meaning in a hearing for Axarthys."

"The demon was _there_, Nevalle." Adelaide snapped.

"Red Fallow's Watch is completely removed from the murder of the Knight Captain." Nevalle countered.

"And what would you know of Red Fallow's Watch?" she hissed.

"I was knighted there before it was utterly destroyed. I fought for the villagers, Adelaide, I fought for _you_ and defended your people," He answered, asking of Lord Nasher, "I would ask this testimony be dismissed. Axarthys only happened to be there at the time of the attack and her business was with Bishop, not with murdering peasants."

"I agree. Adelaide, while we mourn Red Fallow's Watch, we cannot possibly relate that to the matter at hand." Nasher exclaimed. Adelaide's gaping mouth brought a sigh to Axarthys's lips. Relief. Nasher continued, "Adelaide, compose yourself and you shall be granted another chance to prove your evidence as valid tomorrow. Now, for today's… _planned_ business, we will discuss the proper punishment for this crime of murder. Casavir, as you were a witness, speak."

"No less than death." He stated, finality lucid in his tone.

"If I may," Sand spoke from the crevices of the room, guised in shadow, "I suggest, as I did to Sir Nevalle, her end be not officially by our hands. Poison, disease- these things can easily be inflicted, causing lengthy suffering before death. This demon killed our Knight Captain, our friend and our hero, our leader and our compatriot. Her crime merits a death filled with the anguish of the Knight Captain and her mourning companions as well."

"Clearly your view of justice comes from your days in Luskan." Nevalle said. His statement worried the assembled knights, sending utterances through their mass.

"What unfounded information! I never spent so long as a few months' time traveling through there." Sand protested. Nevalle needed only return his gaze with a threatening glower. The truth lingered in their displacement. As the wizard recoiled into the darkness on the opposite side of a pillar once more, Nevalle advanced into the light of the room, pacing around the room.

"We are nine individuals of vastly different origins, with utterly different personalities, wholly dissimilar lives. Save that one precious thing that we all stand here for today, and that is justice. It is what unites us, what makes us the Neverwinter Nine and not nine people who serve Neverwinter. But when we allow our emotions and personal pain to distort our view of justice, we shatter. We are zealots and pacifists at war, and we erupt at the seams of what we formed to defend. In a manner direct or indirect we each loved the Knight Captain; her passing is unbearable to us regardless of how long ago it was. Sand, you were her dearest friend. Casavir, you loved her deeply. It was I that mentored and guided her towards battle with the King of Shadows. We want this tanar'ri, Axarthys Saintrowe, to suffer as _we_ did for the Knight Captain's death," Nevalle declared, "But then are we any better than this murderer? Have we fulfilled our duty as one of the Nine? It has been three years since the Knight Captain was struck down. We have to detach ourselves from the past. Now is not the time for sorrow; we are _done_ mourning. Now, we must rise. It is time we seek uncorrupted justice."

The Nine, in realization of what he spoke, chastised, turned in their silence to Nasher. He said, "You speak frankly and true. Now it must be decided what precisely justice is."

"I would suggest exile and banishment from Neverwinter," Nevalle said, "I feel it is closure without cruelty, as death would only mean this tanar'ri be sent back to the Abyss, only to return here regardless, and permanent death is unjust."

"Allow her to trot back home to Waterdeep? Why did she even come here at all?" Adelaide hissed.

Casavir joined, "To think she will be entirely unaffected."

"Unfortunately, this may prove true." Nasher frowned.

"Then banish her somewhere specific so she may not roam Faerun." Nevalle said, "Ruathym's mages would welcome a tanar'ri of her powers."

"A wise alternative," Nasher said, "All in favor, stand."

Most rose. Two seated were still. Adelaide and Casavir remained steadfast. Adelaide took the paladin's hand in support.

"Then as it stands, that is her punishment." Nasher said, "We will finalize our verdict in three days' time. Should any protesting evidence be brought forward then, we will reevaluate the situation. You are dismissed."

All stood to leave. Axarthys bounded to her feet, weaving through the crowd to reach Nevalle. She called out his name but he ignored her entirely, so she rested a hand against his back. She uttered, "Nevalle, I-"

He returned sharply, "Go to your chambers, Axarthys. I don't want to think about this case, about you anymore. I've sought this end for three years and I just want closure. I want peace."

"I-"

"I'll send a guard later to escort you through the gardens. Whatever you demand. Just- leave me be." He said, turning a corner and ascending a stairwell. Axarthys stood at the center of its helix, watching as he left for his quarters. The remaining Nine bustled about her, steering clear of her presence as they eyed her warily when they passed. She lingered still, ignoring their gawking, eyes transfixed on the stairwell. She whispered, "Thank you, Nevalle."

-

Assembled in the furthest reaches of the Moonstone Mask, Casavir, Adelaide and Sand circled a wooden table with untouched tankards before them. Their robes of station- whether the mantle of the Neverwinter Nine or the cloak of a wizard- were abandoned for cloth tunics, breeches, boots and skirts. Unrecognizable amidst the bands of middle-class merchants, the three vigilantes leaned towards the center of the table, eyes narrowed in a sort of rogue zealotry, theirs an unvoiced requiem for justice un-served.

It was the wizard who spoke first, his bright eyes aglow. He had called their secret meeting, and it was his voice that harkened the beginning of their meeting, "They will not kill her. They cannot risk open war. That is, unless there are other grounds to be considered. Other factors that would assure her punishment, which should be no less than death."

"So we are here to assemble our own evidence against her." Adelaide summarized, shaking her head fervently. She noted, "Nevalle is meticulous; he is heading her case now. He's squeezed every last fact from her, and he will use it to see she is not killed. He won't allow the tanar'ri to be executed. That leaves us nothing to use against her."

"My testimony," Casavir reminded, "Will surely seal the tanar'ri's fate when it is repeated on the morrow."

"Except if Darmon ever gets his sorry ass in line and captures the ranger, and then you'll have a witness to the very same deed who isn't going to let your words be the death of his private succubus. It's your word against his, Casavir. We need more." Adelaide said, "Sand, that _is _why you brought us here, correct? You have knowledge that may be to our benefit?"

"As do you, Adelaide." He countered. She pursed her lips, eyes sharpened and transfixed on the wizard. Sand sighed, "Very well, my information first, then. Remember what Nasher reported to us, what occurred at Red Fallow's Watch? At the same time I was involved with Luskan studying their magic, wizards had paid the Saintrowes to send Axarthys so they could commune with other tanar'ri. Axarthys then deceived them. She received her pay in advance, told them she needed to travel to Red Fallow's Watch- which she called a more 'spiritually charged' region for her communications- only to catch a free ride with Luskan forces to reach Bishop, who was her true assignment in Faerun."

Adelaide's brow arched mockingly. Her scowl upturned into a sickeningly sharp grin, and she chuckled, "Oh, what gossip. So _what_ if she lied and schemed a handful of times- if we counted how many times you were guilty of _that_, Sand, I think we'd run out of fingers between all of us here."

"As if you have information any better." Casavir retorted, "Why are you here if you only wish to criticize? Does cynicism compel everything you do?"

"I am _here_, Casavir, because my entire family _died _defending the people of Red Fallow's Watch. That demon _bitch_ hexed my mother, my father and my brothers. They were _paralyzed_, and I watched them, their faces contorted, aghast, as the fires of our home consumed them." Adelaide snarled. Her hand had clenched her tankard like talons against the metal, scraping at the surface with a fury unmatched by any other memory Casavir had of her. She stood from her stool, looming over Sand and Casavir both, "We deal with not only the murderer of the Knight Captain but a brutal slaughterer of Faerunian souls. She will use every last resource and pull every last string and she had _many_ of them. She has the support of nobles in all major cities along our coast and the Saintrowe family- and wealth- behind her name. Nevalle will tell you that she is not worth a war and he is _wrong. _Whatever the cost, we must stop her. She will not leave this city alive while I breathe."

Sand nodded, quiet, "Then we know what is at stake. If we try and use our stories as evidence, the demon will only refute them and use Bishop and her royal connections to back whatever lie she tells. We cannot allow Nevalle to see to her punishment. It is time we act."

"We have little choice, then," Casavir solemnly voiced, "to do what must be done."

-

When dusk had long passed and the rain had eased, a Greycloak rapped at Axarthys's door. She joined him outside, asking, "You were sent by Sir Nevalle?"

The captain, a woman with cropped brown hair and almond-shaped, kind eyes, nodded, "Yes. I am Brelaina. Nevalle requested I be your guard. He has granted you free reign of the Docks District, where he believes you may attract less attention. Stay close to me there- the district is perilous."

Axarthys followed her, grey hood drawn to mask her face. They departed Blacklake with haste and even still received questioning gazes, though between her disguise and the rain that obscured her visage, Axarthys felt secure in her transversing of the bridge into the Merchant Quarter, treading the alleys to cross the river once more into the Docks. The rain had lessened where the wind had strengthened, wailing at first in muted whimpers now howling as if a wolf baying at the moon, fearsome and ravenous. Axarthys clutched her cape at the nape of her neck, restraining the hood from fluttering away on the thrashing air. Her eyes stung with cold moisture and she tucked her chin against her shoulder bone, shielded from the storm. Brelaina's torch clamored for its flame as it struggled to extinguish itself. She kept a hand on the tanar'ri's upper arm, calling in her ear, "We'd best go inside. There's an inn-"

"The-the Sunken Flagon." Axarthys interjected. Brelaina nodded, the demon in tow as they rounded the corner of a building, slinking past a band of thieves assembled around the warmth of a lantern's fire. The soft thump of feet upon the grass and dirt, the occasional hammering of boots on a broken pathway of stone, became the distinctive creaking of wood as they crossed the deck before the tavern's door. The wind pounded on it, Brelaina tugging the handle with all her strength. When it submitted, the guard and the demon nearly tumbled into the stale, hot air of the place, the door smashing into its frame as they stood at the threshold within. Brelaina motioned to the demon's hood, suggesting the tanar'ri leave it in place, and they strode together to the bar at the farthest reaches of the main parlor.

Axarthys had not forgotten the distasteful place. As she steered through the mess of tables and fallen bar stools, stepping over one drunkard who'd collapsed upon the floor, she recalled the obtuse proprietor, Duncan, and the foulness of the place she and Bishop once occupied. She was fleetingly inspired to beg Brelaina to stay the night so she could sleep in the bed she and her hunter had long ago lain entwined together in. A painful pang of memories struck her heart, an arrow plunged through the lungs of her emotional being. Breathing sharpened for a time, the prelude to tears she never shed. Axarthys missed Bishop so.

Every passing second had become misery, the echoes of a time long past. She approached the bar, remembered caressing Bishop's back as he vomited his drunkenness away, chastising him gently and with a knowing smile. She reposed on a barstool, reminisced straddling his hips as he sat on a chair by the fire, uttering stories in her ear before she feel asleep in his arms. She parted her lips to order a drink, recalled opening her mouth to his, surrendering her voicing of her love for naught but the sensation of it. Caught winded from her memories, Axarthys trembled in her words, finally managing, "Amontillado."

Brelaina's order had been interposed by Duncan's broad, thick chortle. He extended his arms on the bar, hands outstretched before Axarthys. The stench of cheap ale, sea salt and vinegar were about him. He boomed, "Why, if it isn't my old demon friend, Miss Saintrowe. Yes, you used to insist on a difference between sherry and amontillado, I remember you! And those _eyes_, pink as someone with a cold! Trial brought you as far as the Docks?"

Axarthys struggled for a response and Brelaina shook her head ardently, "You must be mistaken, sir. She is a noble and ambassador from Waterdeep. I was touring her through the city."

"No, no-" Duncan persisted, "She lived here at my establishment for four years. I know a loyal patron when I see one. You know, Axarthys… personally, I don't think you killed the Knight Captain. All hog's wash. Now take off your hood- let me see your face. It's been so long."

"No, I-" Axarthys insisted, "I am not she, the demoness."

"Afraid to show your face, girlie?" One of the customers by the fire taunted.

"_I'll_ bet she's an emissary, sure. From _Luskan._" Another chimed. The first nodded in acknowledgement, stealing a sip of whiskey from his tankard before he spoke.

"No, no I think ol' Duncan's right. This here's Axarthys Saintrowe, demon-wench that murdered our hero, the Knight Captain." He said, reason clouded by alcohol. He stumbled off his seat, leaping atop a table, whipping his limbs in drunk theatrics as he exclaimed, "Who remembered the men we lost to the King of Shadows? Did your sons and daughters die defending Neverwinter? Would they still live if the Knight Captain had not been so brutally killed because of this, this _pit fiend_?"

"I am _no_ pit fiend." She uttered. Brelaina's hand enclosed around her wrist.

"I'll escort you back to Blacklake." She said. Another of the patrons overheard her words.

"No offense, Captain, but you'll do no such thing. You're shielding a murder and even worse a _demon_." He hissed, sulking from his seat towards them, "We'll take care of her, Captain. Don't you mourn the Knight Captain?"

Brelaina tried to dodge the man, skirting about him, but he spun about and tore Axarthys's hood from her shoulders. She shrieked, ducking one of his hands as it reached to slap her cheek. Uproarious and anxious, the bar burst into anarchy. A brawl had set loose, and where it should have been patron pitted against patron, it was now every man against the tanar'ri. Brelaina was swiftly separated from her charge, shouting the name Axarthys in desperation derived more from fear of failure than from concern for the tanar'ri. Overpowered and helpless as she was, Axarthys could do naught save beg for mercy, knowing it was fruitless. Pleading filled her ears with a noise her own, gave her a degree of struggling that allowed her to believe she would not submit to defeat.

Fists collided with her ribs, the delicate bird's cage that was all that displaced her internal organs from malicious hands. Bare human hands upon her drove her to insanity, their thoughts coursing through her as their minds in their touch connected. Her telepathy drove the brawlers even more riotous. Her knees buckled as the patrons kicked them free from beneath her. Instead of collapsing entirely she was lifted, limbs pulled in every which way as she was carried outdoors. Her weary, tear-threatened eyes sought out Duncan. Surely he would come to her aid; he'd known her to long. Instead, he watched motionless as she was taken out to the docks like an animal to the slaughter. Except it was her dignity, and not her body, that would be most broken that night.

The mob had assembled, people swarming from their hovels as if mosquitoes to a lantern. Now women and children had begun to chant her name in hatred, cheering their husbands, sons and nephews on as they paraded towards the wooden docks. The whole district had gone mad with rage, the thugs and drunks and thieves of Neverwinter emerged from the darkest reaches of the city. Street lamps had been pounded out of their positions in the soil, carried by two men apiece like terrible torches. Flames had burst from the earth where downed street lamps had been left, strong enough in their fire to overcome the rain. The scene was hellish. Axarthys choked on the memories arising in a hardened ball inside her throat.

Red Fallow's Watch.

Suddenly she thrashed against the arms of her captors, screaming and cursing in tongues reserved for demons that had taken possession of a mortal soul. Her spine twisted, her body contorting in ways her skeleton did not appear to allow. Her fingers churned, mechanical in their gradual spasm, her voice hoarse and rabid as she shrieked in long-lost tongues, "_I who descend from the blood of Belial, in heathen flesh and hedonistic heart, and dare your kind lay hands upon me? I, uncloaked in human form, and not possessed of a human your touch would stray cross my strictly demonic manifestation? Let condemnation in my dominion be your punishment, and ever there upon my plane shall I torment you who would do so unto me._"

The crowd broke only momentarily, retreating from her enough for her words to cease. Before another breath she could take to continue a man still holding on to her legs yelped, "Burn her! Send her back to hell!"

The assembled mass went berserk. The guards, long idle in defending her, swung their weapons as they howled wildly. Children gyrated around their mother's waist, appendages lashing in horror, weeping at seeing the demon while their parent shouted and screeched rowdily. In the man's words they demanded in a united cry, "Burn her! Burn her!"

A dozen men pounced upon her, restraining the seizure of her body under their hands. She heard the tearing of material and the coarseness of it coiling to bind her wrists, arms held still as she was tied by two men on each of her sides. Those at her feet had in similar fashion tied her ankles, the rough linen burning the skin unprotected by her shoes. Hoisted upwards in a sudden jerk, Axarthys's arms were looped around a halved, abandoned mast stripped of its sails. The makeshift pole had been erected as she was bound, the fallen street lamps piled at the base. The shattered glass of their lanterns liberated the fire within, casting it upon the wood of the mast. Axarthys cried out as she felt the rising heat approach her, licking the soles of her heels. Lightning illuminated her pitiable position, the pounding rain unable to battle the relentless yet now-sluggish fire. Her eyes in desperation scanned the crowd, pleading for a returned gaze of sympathy for her suffering. In the absence of it Axarthys saw at the back of the crowd Adelaide Cryhart and the wizard Sand.

Adelaide stared directly at the demon, steadfast in their cruelty. She did not smile, did not cheer. Simply a grim satisfaction was upon her face. Parallel her Sand had handed a clear flask to one of the mob. The crowd parted as the man carried it through them. Axarthys's fingers, heated from the progressively growing blaze, had run cold. Her eyes, stung with smoke, widened in terror. No flame could burn half as badly, no wound ache a third as much, and where the contents of the flask would extinguish the inferno below it would only singe her more, scorching her porcelain flesh. Holy water.

As the crowd reformed around her and the man uncorked the flask, Axarthys's instincts had her duck to her feet and swing to rotate around the other side of the pole. In so doing she felt a splatter from her right shoulder cascading to her left hip across her back. Temporarily it was cool. Then it seared. Her skin split and cracked where the water had touched beneath her gossamer dress, blistering and throbbing so sharply she could hear the hissing of her own body burning. Pain had never been so vivid before, overriding all other senses entirely. Sight, sound, taste, smell all rendered irrelevant to touch, the feeling of sheer misery coursing through every artery, vein and capillary inside her. She was deaf to the victorious shrieks of the antagonists, blind to their manic smiles. Breathing meant inhaling smoke and expanding her body with air, stretching the skin of her back and furthering the opening of her wounds.

Bishop knew she was in Neverwinter, her mind wept, and he had abandoned her to this. He had deceived her, he had left her; how could he have been unaware? The city was aflame with fire and with voices raised to screams in crazed, vigilante justice. From anywhere in the Neverwinter Wood one could hear the echo of madness, feel the reverberations of peasants marching as a legion into a hell mouth, fearful alone but brave in their numbers. The hunter knew and he ignored. His life was not worth hers, he had decided. All she knew as decent and moral in Faerun, all of Toril she invested in him. And this was her reward.

Bishop had betrayed her.

Exhaustion forbade her tears. Axarthys ceased her struggle. Her knees met the earth and fire. Had she a white flag it would have been raised. She bowed to defeat, surrendered in body and a thousand times more in her mind. Neverwinter had shattered what fragility of her emotions was left. Taken from her home, carted up the Sword Coast, tried and given a transitory verdict to be exiled to Ruathym to become the subject of wizards and sorcerers' studies, forever locked in a cage there, Axarthys's heart had been slowly crushed by Tyr's hammer. Through his tool Neverwinter he had extinguished the tanar'ri's resolve. Once more Axarthys gazed up at the crowd, begging one of them in her frantic eyes to mercifully end her life where she knelt.

No one dared be so humane. They watched, they clapped, they cheered and they laughed. Their merriment continued. Yet without notice their numbers became anxious, surrounded. Thunder rattled the ground in hollow metallic hammering. _Horses_. Blacklake's royal guard aloft their white steeds halted before her, their ebony armor reflective of the moonlight and the stars, diamonds mirrored as if upon black velvet. At their center a palomino stallion stood, as golden as the sun, as radiant as the fires burning at the demon's feet. His rider ordered, "Half of you find Captain Brelaina and take her to Castle Never for questioning. The rest, lock down the district and interrogate anyone possibly involved. I expect a detailed report on the morrow."

Nevalle's voice tore through the torrents of the storm in her head. Acutely aware of her position she called for him to free her. In her mind she was screaming, yet truly her words escaped as a muffled slew of phrases in a tongue she herself did not know. She repeated and repeated in the same sorrowful, nonsensical mewl, "_Diligo mihi summitto in meus pectus pectoris, diligo mihi summitto in meus pectus pectoris, diligo mihi summitto in meus pectus pectoris_."

For what seemed forever he approached her, knelt, extended his arms slowly as if to reach for a wounded wild animal. Her eyes darted, her body still contorting as her senseless ramblings dissipated into ragged breaths. She was lifted to her feet, unable to stand alone, relying on the knight's body leaned upon. He severed her bounds, catching her as she tumbled into his grasp. His bare hands on her shoulders should have caused her to feel his thoughts reverberated in her own yet there was no sensation save the very physical one of the rumbling of his words from within his chest as he declared to the people, "You think this is justice? To torture our enemies are we any different than Luskan? This… this is an _outrage_; this action will forever tarnish our city, and it shall be _you_ to blame. Return to your homes and remain there. You will not be permitted to leave this district until Lord Nasher- and _I_- see fit."

Axarthys's feet were lifted from the earth, body scooped in his arms. His hand on her back and the movement of his stride burned ferociously, her back's wound begging not to be so tormented. In turn she cried out, arms nearly strangling his neck with the remainder of her taxed strength, legs wrapped around his waist to keep her back straightened. That helped little- she was swung atop his horse, bent again, wound aching terribly. Once Nevalle had mounted, grasping her head to his shoulder, the pain dulled. The physical closeness filled a void Bishop had cored from her heart. _Any_ embrace would have- had she been harbored in Adelaide Cryhart's arms she would have cared not. Human touch, mentally and bodily, soothed her. A brittle peace washed over her, fatigue surely contributing to it. She did not ward off the sleep tranquility offered. Axarthys acquiesced to slumber, rocked to sleep by the canter of Nevalle's horse.

-

The hunter had smelled the smoke, heard the flicker of the fire in the distance well-hidden under the patter of the rain. The earth shook as people amassed. From his post on an outcropping above Neverwinter, he saw the Docks speckled with the blazes of torches carried by its people. He wondered why they marched, toyed with the possibilities in his mind. The hunter hoped the incompetent Darmon and wretched Casavir had been slaughtered in the fray but the scene did not appear a battle. A protest, possibly. Given, anything was possible. It was, after all, the Docks, renowned for its instability and crime. The Shadow Thieves had surely just rallied the district thugs, or some ne'er-do-well had committed an act inspired by the late Moire, maybe as foolish as attempting to torch the City Watch.

He then paused, considered that Lamb was involved.

And if she was, what could he have done? She was capable, and he was no one to rescue damsels. Yet with the thought of her suffering came a shame the hunter could not wipe clear from his mind. He knew what it was to suffer. He remembered Red Fallow's Watch, and it had been _her_ that came to his side and offered him peace. What if he had failed to do the same for her? Did his heart, as tainted and wicked as he'd allowed it to become, pine for her safety? It had been so long, too long, years. Three years, and only a few moments of her company while she killed the Knight Captain kept it from being longer. Could he let harm come to her?

He loved her severely. Of that he was sure. Sinking into the guise of the trees he coursed his way to Neverwinter. If she'd been injured, he had to reach her. He had to see to it that the scene he'd witnessed had nothing to do with her. The hunter could not longer wait for Darmon.

-

Author's Notes:

Wow, this chapter was perfectly miserable, wasn't it? Kind of like reading the fifth Harry Potter book without the teen angst. Okay, I hope not _that_ miserable. Not going to lie though, I had WAY too much fun writing this chapter (Goes to show you how delightfully despicable I am). I wanted to take a chapter to bring my love of classic demonology into play for Axarthys, and the timing seemed right, so viola! I won't insult your intelligence by pointing the references out, but they're there.

And for your amusement, I deleted a scene in this chapter where Nevalle talks to Axarthys about if she ever possessed anyone, and she admits a number of years ago, yes, when she was "…slightly inebriated." It was a little too playful a scene to make this happily dark chapter. Maybe it'll make its return later on. :shrugs:

Happy reading always,

Valah


	5. Interlude III: Chapter Four

Interlude III: Chapter Four

Soon the rhythm of hoof beats ceased, the hollow sound of their applause's end awakening Axarthys. Nevalle had dismounted, catching her in his arms as she dropped from the saddle. She braced for her burn to sear as she moved but a shooting pain never came. He'd been so vigilant in his treatment of her that her feather-light body cupped in his grasp as if he was fearful of her weight there, as if she was glass. His footfalls carried her from the drizzle outdoors to the pleasantly thick, warm air inside the castle. When they began to ascend the staircase the motion pained her and she whimpered. He apologized in a hushed utterance.

Eyes closed, Axarthys knew not if her chambers they had reached until Nevalle had surrendered her to the cloud of her bed. Reposing on her stomach, face resting on its cheek upon her pillows, she felt a gloved hand atop the crown of her white locks. She peered up at the knight, heard him say, "I'll be back soon."

"I-I'll be here alone." She shuddered.

He answered gently, "Then if you are brave, I will be fast."

And he was, fetching wine and linen bandages whilst she clung to her velvet quilt, numbering the moments of his absence. When he returned she breathed once more, her heartbeat's pulse eased into a weakened walloping inside her chest. He sat alongside her, freeing her arms of the sleeves of her dress and peeling it down to her waist as she laid on her front, unlacing the corset at the small of her back. Axarthys had thought him to be as prudish as knights and paladins were, regardless of necessity for her skin exposed. She admired his void of hesitance, supposing someone reticent was not inherently modest.

He examined the extremity of her wound, the leather of his gloves cool against her sides. He admitted, "I am no cleric. It appears as if a burn by fire though clearly it is more intense, marring deeper. I will do what little I can now. Later, we will need to find someone of more expertise. I only hope what I am capable of is enough to last us until then."

He uncorked the wine and poured it over her. Axarthys caught the rich smell of the liquid between gasps of air. Merlot. It stung in the splintered, scarlet flesh of her wound mightily, pressing a pitiable whine from her lips. Her fingers flexing not of her will, Axarthys felt her hand held in another of leather, downy and supple, engulfing the flimsy bones of her digits. The miniature embrace shooed the ephemeral anguish of the wine coursing her burn. Through the veil of leather and the pliability of flesh, the sturdy skeleton of Nevalle's hands impressed and confused the tanar'ri. It deeply perplexed a demon as her that something could be concurrently powerful and gentle. She had never known the two as simultaneous.

The same was true of his voice: a quiet and authoritative intonation that said, "I need to dress this burn so it stays clean. Are you able to sit up?"

"Must I?" she whispered. She heard the crinkling of the velvet coverlets as he moved, presumably for the bandages.

"No. I would not cause you anymore senseless pain." He replied. Where all the time she had been in his company his voice had the air of knightly detachment, an emotionless leadership unquestioned in its surety, now his voice leaked failure. Axarthys rotated her neck, her head resting on the opposite cheek to look to him. She permitted him to ready her dressings in quiet, reading the slight defeat written on the corners of his mouth.

"You are at no fault." She reassured after a while.

"I was selfish to have wanted your case over and to not have protected you." He said, "It is my duty to be selfless and I was not, and for that, I am greatly at fault. Forgive me, Axarthys. I would not have wished you such humiliation and pain."

She was wordless, allowing him to see to her as he did. He lifted her torso and slipped the bandages under her side and around her waist, wrapping her slender middle. His gloved hands brushed her skin as they worked upwards from her back, binding her breasts beneath the gauze as he finished dressing the burn. Part of the bandage he had tucked around the curve of her shoulder and under one of her arms, pinning it to discourage movement. Scooping her into his hands he readjusted her, stationing her back against the malleable, cushioning pillows for support. Axarthys's eyes met his, murmuring, "May I thank you?"

"No," he declined, "It was my penance to care for the wounds caused by my selfishness."

"Then I forgive you." She whispered. Surprise crossed his features, a temporary tensing of his lips following. Perhaps he was taken aback at hearing such phrases spoken from demons' tongues. Axarthys believed it was of less racial ignorance, and simply he was stunned anyone could pardon his actions. A breath of relief departed Nevalle's lips. He bowed his head in comprehending the sincerity of her forgiveness, standing to the floor to raise his chin, his eyes linear hers.

"I would leave you to your sleep now." He said. She shook her head.

"Company fills where my heart was pitted as if a plum by the hunter. I implore you remain with me where he has strayed." She requested. He surrendered, regaining his seat by her. Axarthys said, "Let it be known that the physical and mental pains are incomparable to the misery I feel when I think of my champion's betrayal. It was he designated to defend me, to stand as the protector you should not have been made to fill the role of."

"Bishop could not have known you would suffer. I am sure when Sir Darmon returns him to you, his heart shall be broken and he will console you. He loves you, does he not?" Nevalle asked, immediately apologizing, "I should not ask such things of you."

"I have naught to conceal from you," She uttered, "He does, but as close as he prowls in the Neverwinter Wood, surely he would have known of my imprisonment and would have come to my defense. Surely he would have not left me to-to… _die_."

She trembled with tears, realizing how suddenly alone she was. Abandonment had struck down her emotional strength, leaving her mentally as exhausted as her body. She had loved Bishop so blindly. He was a ranger, a transient of the social world where love was so very much a part. His love, as so he was, was unstable and fleeting, akin to his support. She thought that once she had loved him with a passion unmatched of anything in all of Faerun, and here she lay doubting the foundations of her faith in that world. Hopelessly she began to weep.

Her lamentation sang in tears. Nevalle had never heard a more sorrowful noise, and never one as dulcet and as melodious as it. Moved, he collected her shuddering body in his grasp. Axarthys curled her arms on the level surface of his chest. Her burn ached when she throbbed with tears. Too distressed to sleep and yet exhausted, she replayed memories of Red Fallow's Watch in her mind. The thoughts worsened her sobbing. She had loved him too much. She had longed for him too many months. The anticipation of their first meeting had afforded her such happiness, such inspired joy, that she eagerly had gone with the Nine to Neverwinter, compliant in her bliss. Now she was trapped there without cause.

Axarthys slumped into Nevalle's lap, her head genuflected on his leg as she cried. She heard the creaking of the door and footsteps yet she could not bear to focus on them. A white-robed woman had entered with a metal tray, setting it down on the nightstand to mouth quietly to Nevalle, "Sir Casavir requested I see to her. For now, have her drink this. It should suffice to sedate her until someone of more skill in these things comes."

"Thank you." He replied to the woman, continuing to pet the tanar'ri's head. She mewled for long a time, tears damp on the knight's breeches. Nevalle sympathized with her so. He leaned over her, sheltering her between the bend of his thigh and the recess of his neck into his stalwart shoulder. She cried her eyes of their tears, shivering as their lasting chill froze her cheeks. When at last she had crawled from Nevalle's lap to repose on the pillows, his fingers swept along the curve of her jaw, saying, "If you sleep, I promise I'll be here when you wake."

"I can't," she quivered, "Too many thoughts plague me."

"Then it is good the cleric delivered this," He said, gathering the vessel in his hand to offer her. She reached for it, taking it between both of her fragile hands. He warned, "You'll be sedated a day or two should you drink it. That may be best if you are to recover from tonight's trauma."

She gazed into the pitcher, looked back to him, and swiftly downed the contents. Taking the empty vessel from her and setting it on the tray, Nevalle tucked the blankets around her and sat in a chair by the fire, fingers loose over the hilt of the sword at his side in the case of intruders. Axarthys called weakly as she coiled into the mass of covers and pillows, "I will miss you as I sleep."

He tried not to smile when he responded, "Goodnight, Axarthys."

-

Atop the volcanoes of the Abyss's treacherous geography existed halls of obsidian, pillars and towers carved from rock to perch over the bubbling lava in the calderas beneath it. From the cliff side the palace was a projection, one large balcony whose corridors extended far into the reaches of the mountainside. Light emanated from the hell fires flickering from flambeaus mounted on the wall. Their blazes cast shades citrine and ruby, translucence of their colors imprinting distinctive illuminations on the mirror of the black marble floor. In the vacant halls a tanar'ri, her breath hasty and her steps, rhythmic tapping of her heels upon the floor, alerted her presence. Her dusky blonde curls bounced in the wake of her stride, her green skirts lifted so her pace would not be so hindered by her garb.

She entered a lengthy hall, vertical and narrow to extremes. At its end the hall burst into a room as tall as it was wide, sumptuous in curtains of purple and red. Armored succubi flanked the entry, their visors shielding their wary eyes. Beyond them, upon an elevated stage, reclined a score of demons about the base of a throne, their matron seated there. The blonde tanar'ri dipped in curtsy, proceeding to speak reverently, "Ladyship Balimynah, beloved Lamb's predicament is dire."

The matron tanar'ri turned towards the distressed demon, a comforting smile upon her face, and truly beautiful it- and she- was. Balimynah owned a hundred times more colors in rare silks and damasks than the colors of her albino palette. Her skin, hair, eyes, horns, wings and tail were as stark white as the very snow itself, and equally as luminous. She was the Queen Saintrowe, mother of the first Saintrowe intermediaries Nonah and Nantyglo seated beside her, and as archaic as her origins were, she in appearance did not exceed fifteen years. Her colorless eyes were wide and framed in icicle lashes, her brow camouflaged against the backdrop of her skin. Her garb was a gown that swathed her in fabric red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple and indigo, her chains of precious stones in colors according.

She faced the girlish demon and nodded, cooing, "Have you as well felt it, my precious Fawn? Our Lamb's heart has broken, shattered under Neverwinter's boot. Fire and holy water have marred her where their hearsay could not, her voice weeping in the tongue of exorcized demons. I feel it, my sweet."

"But the hunter, he left her to _die_," the Fawn began to sob, her wide rose eyes narrowed with tears in their almond shape, "Surely you will save my dear sister Lamb?"

The Bird, seated at Balimynah's right hand, peered up fearfully, her lips glossed and gossamer tightening worriedly. Her Ladyship lifted her hand, palm forward in beckoning for their distress to cease, saying, "Where once there stood a man of the earth of origin most un-noble and unbefitting of her station, the Lamb will walk independent of any human hand's brutality. And for her suffering, my dearest Fawn, the Lamb will not go unrewarded."

The Bird uttered fearfully, "My daughter, my beloved firstborn Lamb…"

The Fawn wept in her mother Bird's words, crying, "She is in such _pain_. Can not I see her, care for the burns that so mark her in human cruelty? My adored sister Lamb-"

"-Shall not march alone," Balimynah consoled lovingly, kissing the Fawn's forehead, "For she is a princess of demons, Lady of the House Saintrowe, Lamb of the Emissaries, but foremost she is our sister and she is our daughter. My sweet child, depart in peace now and polish your blades."

When the Fawn had bowed and exited the room, Balimynah motioned to the Bird to be seated before her. She opened, folded, and reopened a hand to have a mass of canary silk and a mask encrusted with stones the colors of the abyssal hellfires materialize there. The Bird took them to Balimynah's words, "My Bird, stay your blades. Let our wealth flourish unhindered by blood and sword. For _you_, my adored daughter, need only know the armor of politics is the garb of royals."

-

Adelaide stomped back and forth before the altar of Tyr, the church still as the night was drawing to its end. The pews lined in front of her acted as the wooden audience to her displeasure, marked only by the thick scowl on her face, staring in their oak grains unblinking. Sand, who'd taken his seat at the middle of the temple, was pensive, and that bothered the paladin. She was furious _anyone _could be so unmoved by the night's events, more specifically the disastrous arrival of the royal guard and Nevalle. That noble-born, city-bred fool would have mopped the floor at Nasher's feet with his tongue, she thought, and his righteousness was a nauseatingly shallow front.

Like Casavir's, Adelaide darkly considered. As she lingered over the resonance of his name in the soundlessness of her thoughts, he strode through the doors of the temple. He wore the tunic of their order with a certain air of justice she loathed. Adelaide hissed, "You traitorous_ bastard_. Where were _you_ when we rallied the people of the Docks against the demon? Where were _you _when she was tortured? Did you have a change of heart, Casavir?"

"Yes, Adelaide. And I pity that you did not." He replied.

"Obviously the Knight Captain doesn't mean a half-copper to you," she snapped, "Sand and I threaten our very _existences_ here in Neverwinter if we are found responsible, and _you_, who were just as involved in this plot, aren't even going to have to face Nasher's wrath."

"Indeed. Are you letting us take your revenge out? Because as it stands the tanar'ri suffers in her chambers for her crime and you did nothing to see that through." Sand hissed.

"My refusal to join your effort is no reflection of my fear to involve myself. If the price to avenge my beloved was involvement I would have paid it long ago. I realized walking from Castle Never to the Docks that revenge is not equivalent to justice," Casavir stated firmly, "And it is _justice_, not revenge, that the Knight Captain represented."

Adelaide pilloried him with a mocking cackle. She leaned against the altar, head shaking purposefully slow, chuckling, "My, my, I feel as if I'm talking to Nevalle. Did his idealistic visions infect your capacity to reason? If so, allow me to readjust your moral compass; know that chivalry is not dead, it never existed, that justice is never just, oh, and for further reference, that blondes in truth have _much_ less fun."

"You mock me because you know you are at fault." He sternly replied.

She grinned, "As are you, Casavir, and if I am discovered, I swear you _will_ sink with this ship."

"Then tell all of Neverwinter that I am at fault. Tell them we conspired hand in hand. Be both our downfalls. You will find that I will not cower from the truth as you would." Casavir answered, facing the wizard, "Sand, stand with me. You feel the pain of the Knight Captain's death; surely you would be compelled to honor her memory through justice, not through this senseless torture."

"The Knight Captain's death _was_ senseless torture," Sand corrected, "And I prefer to think an eye is paid for an eye than to think justice in favor of vengeance. Such a slight difference to have our trio shattered, isn't it, Casavir? But I suppose subtleties are enough to splinter any group united."

"You see, Casavir? Even the usual defector wizard stands true to the cause. We stand strong in the face of this crime." Adelaide said.

"Then I will leave the both of you to your beliefs." Casavir replied, nodding in grim farewell as he plodded back through the temple to exit. As the doors closed Sand faced Adelaide, a lax concern tainting his countenance. Adelaide's expression had not been altered in the slightest.

"And so what are we to do next?" Sand asked.

"The tanar'ri still lives," Adelaide answered, "And that must be remedied."

-

Bishop skirted the city walls, his black hood drawn up around his face. Dawn had risen and the guard would be switched. It was his slim margin of chance to enter the city, a risk he would play if it rewarded him with even the opportunity to glance upon Axarthys's face. As the armored soldiers of Blacklake left their posts, the ranger slinked around the wall and directly behind a building, his heart jumping in his chest. It wasn't so much his effortless success that thrilled him but the thought of so simply outfoxing Neverwinter's supposed elite warriors. Life was his gamble, his game, and winning had a way of fueling his already super-inflated ego.

He came dangerously close to forgetting entirely about Axarthys as he rejoiced in his entry, coursing the alleys and walks of Blacklake. But he convinced himself how much she meant to him, how long their company had lasted, tried to recount the number of times he'd bedded her. He conjured her face in his mind and wondered if it was still as beautiful. The memories filled the hole of her being in his mind, and recalling them was an immediate fix to the times he felt lonesome or especially detached.

Bishop crossed the street to scan the stores opening- a bakery, butchery, a clothier. Deciding on the later, figuring the endless racks of fabric would provide adequate cover, he opened the door to the chiming of a bell. A robust woman flounced towards him at the sound, smiling, "Welcome, dear. Are you looking for anyth-"

"Browsing." He beamed transparently enough. The woman must not have noticed, for she simply bobbed her head hurriedly and returned to her station at the back of the store without concern. Assured she had gone Bishop turned a corner around a rack, pretending to take interest in the exorbitant garb folded on shelves at the corner of the place. As he fingered the silk of a radiantly yellow dress, sickening sunny in his opinion, he heard the ringing of the door opening. He turned his gaze over his shoulder. It was Darmon and a handful of knights. Bishop nearly boomed with victorious laughter- the fool; he was not even yards away and was completely unaware the ranger was present! Bishop listened as Darmon's familiarly drunken voice permeated the store.

"We are in need of four particularly outlandish masks." He drawled. The woman giggled in glee.

"Oh, the masked ball! Tonight, is it, at the palace? Oh, what fun would it be to attend! Here, here, I have _just_ the proper masks, too- these are velvet, and _look_, this plumage is truly superb, imported all the way from Calimshan," she presumably was showing the men her collection at the interested sound of their chatter, "I heard all the Nine will attend- good, good, they need some time to breathe will all the commotion here in the city. The ruckus last night at the Docks, my, truly _quite_ the altercation as I've heard. Now, are these your final selections?"

There was a clatter of coins and some hushed jabbering, then the knights shuffled for the door. At their departure Bishop emerged from the shadows, striding to the counter at the end of the store. He leaned on its edge, the woman tilting her head in question, twittering, "Yes, my dear? What would you like?"

He smiled darkly, "To know if those masks come in black."

-

The afternoon sun was fearsome, roaring through the windows and beyond the drapes. Light purest white and transparent as water filled the room as if the chambers thirsted for the sun to stave off the cold quiet. Axarthys challenged her eyes to part in the brilliance, wincing even when they did finally open. With her sight followed physical feeling, then sound, taste, and smell. She braced for misery that was not as unbearable as she'd imagined would be. Her burn ached dully, her exhaustion replaced with mere malaise. She rose, sitting in a heap of blankets.

Axarthys saw a bouquet of flowers at the foot of the bed. She reached for them, gathering them to the numbed ache of her wound. The blossoms were radiant, yellow orchids bound in a pale azure ribbon of chiffon rimmed in gold. She lifted them to her nose, inhaling the saccharine aroma. They were exquisite.

"Nevalle told me they reminded him of you," a voice noted aloud, "He said they were rare, singular, and as smiling as the sun if only they would smile at all."

It was Casavir, standing by one of her windows. Axarthys cradled the flowers in her arms, uttering, "They are lovely."

"He sent them in his absence. Since the Docks incident he's been busier than Nasher himself, torn in a hundred directions all at one time while still finding the energy to sit by your side each night. It's been two nights now, three days. I fear he'll go mad with it all." Casavir said. The wistful sound of his voice pierced Axarthys's thoughts in a peculiar way, awakening her into the politics of her case.

"If not Nevalle why do you stand where the murderer of your love reposes?" She piercingly asked. He glanced at her, stabbed by the question as if through the core of his soul. There was melancholy where she expected rage, a sorrow he established in fury's lacking.

He answered, "You ask a good question, and I shall be as frank as you ask it. I orchestrated what occurred at the Docks, but I was a coward. I should have known what you did to the woman I loved would be avenged in more suffering. It is senseless to fuel violence, to spur _more_ of it, then more, contributing to the endless cycle. That is when you forget what you fight for, and I couldn't bear to forget the Knight Captain.

"I told Nevalle of my involvement, explained my realization and my feelings. He told me he would speak not a word to Nasher if I promised him one thing, and that was to speak to you. He told me, Casavir, there is a woman behind the demon, and you must remember that, you must forgive her as if she is as human as you are. I've combated the thought of such action for two days, battled it… until I saw that there is a greater strength in mercy than in cruelty. And so, for myself and on the behalf of my love, I forgive you."

Axarthys looked away, dipped her head solemnly, "Demons do not hear those words."

"I speak the words to you as to another human being, Axarthys. Where your people have been blinded by their heritage I do not think you are so tainted. Neither does Nevalle. I trust him- we believe in much the same ideals, share a similar morality. Nevalle has such _faith_ in you and his faith is not easily earned. So for that, I would hope my forgiveness you will value." Casavir responded. Despondent in her features the paladin shifted from the window, walking towards her vanity closer to her bed, glancing to her with a frown. She could not accept his forgiveness.

She explained, "My heritage does not permit me to completely understand human morality, and it is difficult to see through the veil of misery you have caused me at the light of the clemency you offer. But because Nevalle and you have invested faith in my character, I will try."

"Then that is all I may ask," He replied, comforted by the ordeal's resolution. The silence of the finished topic allowed closure to finalize, the moral verdict settling like sediment in a river long after the storm had passed. Axarthys inhaled a prolonged breath, the muscles between her ribs aching from the smoke inhalation she'd recovered from. Painful as it was, the air filled her and released in a tranquil exhale, a peace washing over her to conclude her emotional war with the paladin.

Axarthys lifted her chin, considering her current condition, asking of Casavir, "May I ask you something?"

"By all means."

"How was I healed so quickly? You tell me it was three days' sedation, yet already the pain has become but a strong ache and a slight fatigue, as if the last days of a fever." She said. He leaned against the edge of her vanity, arms crossed.

"I wish to say in part, the cleric I sent for you helped, but there was little Neverwinter's clerics could do. In truth an exceptional cleric from Amn was summoned. He'd been traveling north from Baldur's Gate and came upon Neverwinter's request. He knew a great deal about your people and tailored specific treatments for your wound, spending all day and night working to heal you. He left for Icewind Dale this morning." Casavir answered. Axarthys shook her head.

"Neverwinter's taxes would not have paid to have me healed." She said. Casavir nodded.

"They didn't," He said, "Nevalle saw to it."

Axarthys averted her eyes, face turned away in a contemplative, humbled manner. The rare orchids, their ribbon exquisite, the merlot wine he'd cleaned her wound with, the palomino steed whose gait was silken enough to rock her to her slumber, now his paying for her care, the thoughts assembled. These subtleties divided him from his people, designated him of the pure noble blood they had not. Her cheeks warmed with an abruptly piqued curiosity in him. She stifled it as best she could, saying, "I must thank him for his kindness."

"I will relate your thanks to him tonight at the masked ball." Casavir said.

"My thanks would only be sincere if I spoke them to him." Axarthys insisted. He shook his head.

He replied, "Between your case and the Docks, then tonight's activities and your injury, he is too engaged to see you now. If I tell him of your wishes, perhaps tonight he'll come to visit you."

Axarthys closed her eyes, opening them to smile, "In that case, tell him that if he comes fast, I will be brave."

-

The sun had ducked beneath the furthest reaches of the horizon, the sunset marking day's sleep in a vivid canvas of pinks, purples, oranges and reds. The weathered, pale light shed the colors across the white of Axarthys's robe. She lay sprawled before her fireplace, the wood there lit by a stroke of her finger and an utterance of a spell. The crackling of the flames ebbed at the soundlessness, allowing for a balmy quiet that urged peace to wash the blood from her heart's wounds. The scene proposed to her a meditative ambiance, as surreally serene as the moonlight reflected on the surface of a lake or an evening meal eaten over candlelight.

Axarthys adjoined her chamber's mood with the hum of a melody she'd recalled from long ago, when her matron Balimynah would cradle her and knot her fingers in her hair, singing epic tales of knights at war and castles and damsels. Her song she hummed until the words became evident, backed by the echo of her words in the room.

At its closure she heard a snivel, the most nominal of breaths. Axarthys rose up, supported by one hand on the floor, gathering her legs beneath her. It had been a demon that echoed her song, not the walls of her room, the demon's chiffon robes mirroring the early night's arising in its hues. She roosted on the sill of the window, a mournful grin across the smallness of her lips. Axarthys stood, leisurely walked to her to see the brilliantly colored fabric in her lap.

"You linger here when there is a masquerade downstairs, my daughter," The Bird said, standing. She took the Lamb's hands and folded them over the oranges and yellows of the silk and mask she offered, embracing her in turn, "There is someone you must thank there. Go, my child, and be beautiful as you are."

-

Author's Notes:

Mini-scene MANIA!! I had fun writing all these snippets leading up to one of the most vital events of the story, the masquerade. As that scene is to me the climax of all the character's entwinement in one another's plots, the chapter where all the loose ends meet, I decided to omit it from the end of this chapter and save it for the next. But it's coming, so stick around- much of it is written already and I am ecstatic to share it with you!

As far as this chapter, Casavir fans, rejoice! He is not as crazed as he appears. Sand fans- Sand is _still_ under Adelaide's wicked curse (she must be a Sand fan too)! Bishop fans, our beloved ranger finally got around to getting in to Neverwinter! Nevalle… fans…um, don't exist. But he's my favorite so loves spews for him any ways!

Peace out and happy reading,

Valah


	6. Intermission: Neverwinter

Intermission: Neverwinter

Four years had transpired from the defeat of the King of Shadows. The event, the ball at Castle Never, had cemented the victory's memory in fountains run golden with champagne and masks of every conceivable plumage, adornment and color. Tablecloths of harlequin-printed velvet decorating the tables soothed the stoic chill of the castle's stone. Masks and gowns outlandish in their jewel-tones, feathers and rhinestones promenaded in such noble pageantry the lesser-born of knights- even members of the Nine- were daunted. Even Lord Nasher chose to withdraw from the activities, entrusting his Nine with the task of controlling the crowd.

Nevalle was at ease with the task, even the event itself. Born to a noble family, such spectacle and pomp was to him akin to breathing- necessary, involuntary. His much-celebrated choice of a billowing, concealing mahogany cloak hooded to his brow, where a white half-mask and red feathered tricorne hat, was to him a thoughtless decision. Yet the notable adventurers and Greycloaks of Neverwinter present, garbed in garish costumes, gloated over his taste. His mother's overbearing etiquette, decorum and style were evident in her son. Capable socially, he'd made conversation with the guests as they leaked into the central ballroom from Blacklake. A few shared words warmed their demeanor and satisfied their thirst for Neverwinter's society.

Hollow words and empty smiles did little, however, to cure the itch of his thoughts. He'd tirelessly slaved on Axarthys's case for days, exchanging sleep for a few extra spoonfuls of sugar in his tea and the occasional swig of sherry to stifle the insanity beginning to stem through the veins of his mind. One success brought a hundred more questions to be asked, more interviews to be had, more possible criminals to be tried. After Brelaina was caught, then ten associates at the Docks were found through her to be involved. Those leads were proved or disproved, then from that batch, another twenty leads came, and then another ten, maybe from that score of criminals another fifteen still. Sorting the ordeal had become a witch hunt. Each citizen of the Docks was pitted against one another, pointing fingers and stating names to incriminate anyone not themselves. Dawn until dusk Nevalle pursued empty tips, even worse yet, pleading with Casavir to reveal more about the Docks plot. The paladin remained stubbornly wordless, and so Nevalle was left with what little information was available to solve the situation at hand.

Nevalle feared he'd forget what he fought for at all. Then nights remedied that affliction. Spending the starlight watching Axarthys slumber, restless, weak and ill, inspired him. The cleric he'd summoned never spoke, leaving the three of them to a soothing peace and the sound of the shuffling of covers or the bubbling of potions heated over the fire, sweet-smelling poultices of ginger, saffron and frankincense warmed on the hearth. The determined, pained expression on the tanar'ri's face as she slept stirred Nevalle's faith in her, instigating his fascination with the striking creature.

Many years a knight, Nevalle was acutely aware of demonic vices. He knew, for example, that succubi appeared incontrovertibly attractive to mortal men and yet were dreadful, debased, tactless killers. Their very nature made them unappealing to knights who were aware of it, stripping them of their foremost power: seduction. Succubi were at the core of their being creatures unbefitting of salvation, only divine punishment. He supposed the same for all tanar'ri, that they were helplessly and hopelessly beyond the light of good and Tyr. Half-fiends, any partially mortal fiend, could be afforded deliverance, trust, love, and all human emotions for their partially non-demonic heritage.

Nevalle couldn't help feeling that hope for Axarthys. Yet she was more pure-blooded than any succubus ever was. She was wholly tanar'ri, not at all human. While she battled silently in her sedation for her life, Nevalle had secretly cheered for her. He wished her to win. He wished her to live. Her smile was too chaste, her laughter too pure, her emotions too untainted for her to be condemned- there was hope left for her, possibly love left for her. He prayed Tyr would have mercy for her, the demon, no, have mercy for the _woman_, Axarthys Saintrowe.

Her name recollected the divinity of her face, its grey skin tattooed in pink a flag of strength for her people, her lips full and upturned in a hesitant, vexing smile. The materialization of her face in his thoughts was splintered by the grasping of his lower arm, words beckoning him out of his lull that said, "Nevalle, _Nevalle_?"

"Y-yes, Darmon?" He asked. Darmon's raised brow and amused grin attested to Nevalle's apparent loss of focus.

"Just making sure you're still alive. Your gaze is a little distant, a little…_empty_. You aren't going totally loopy with sleep depravation, are you? Or are you just mad drunk?" Darmon asked. Nevalle glared.

"I'm not inebriated quite yet," he said, "I'll work on that."

"Well, if it ever happens, make sure you try and find me. I'll spar with you drunk. Best fun you'll have in months if you can get over the hangover and stab wounds tomorrow morning." Darmon elbowed the knight, winking as he danced off into a mass of pink-gowned, voluptuous redheads. By the revolting manner in which Darmon had melted into their number, immediately winking and smiling suggestively at them, Nevalle was not so certain his peer would have the opportunity to drunkenly spar. Thanking the women in his thoughts, he sidestepped a gathering of wizards and surveyed the ballroom from the back of the room, scrutinizing the event. The string quartet hired to perform had not yet begun to play their music, readying their instruments. Nevalle painfully considered which noblewoman he would dance with, scanning the crowd for a woman who wouldn't try her hand at enchanting him. He wasn't interested in proposals from young damsels vying for his titles or wealth, just a waltz and the continuation of his servitude to Neverwinter, not to a wife. He added in his thoughts, as if to secure them in his mind, _yes, thank you very much, I am perfectly satisfied with my life's existence._

The clots of people passing through the artery of the main entry had slowed considerably, the remaining fashionably late nobles trickling through as they jabbered court gossip into the eager ears of their companions, their vivid purple and electric green costumes of stripes and checker-boards flitting in their gait as if as gleeful to hear the gossip as their wearers. Adelaide had crept through the door, her tempestuous demeanor appropriately accompanied with a storm-grey gown and mask. Casavir, standing adjacent the entry in his trim surcoat of emerald green and artfully stitched white breeches, his mask of parrot feathers a similar shade, spoke to her not a word. Nevalle thought that odd, given their former alliance in the case of Axarthys, but he put the thought aside, watching as the finalized crowd amassed at the center of the ballroom, meshing in their array of colors into a rainbow-colored pit. Their voices rose in volume now that more social contact was made in the large crowd. Mere prattling rose to the level of a most robust chatting.

Almost thankfully, a sudden silence erased the voices of the fancifully dressed nobles. They parted as if an ocean halved, the cleaved wave crashing at the shores of the outskirts of the ballroom. In the path formed, the most radiant of gowns sashayed, its body comprised of folds orange and yellow in their silk, encrusted in stones the color of sunshine at the edges of her taut long sleeves, the rim of her skirt at the crest of her bodice. Its wearer approached slowly. Her mask fanned outwards in feathers rich brown, crowning her head. She walked hesitantly into the center of the room, her gait weak and tap of her heels on the floor delicate. When she rotated, eyeing the crowd, he saw the back of her gown dipped in a low V, her burn's scar painfully visible. And in the coil of her hair atop her head was weaved yellow orchids, a ribbon blue and tipped in gold tied in a bow behind her neck.

"I am unaware of a city whose nobles would permit demons to mingle in their number and attend their celebrations." A man jeered from the back of the room. The crowd laughed restrainedly, sidling from the demon as she paced the circle of the room, head bowed not in shame but rather deference to the mortals she so easily could have overpowered, weak as she was. Her pink eyes peered up from under the openings in her mask, lined in dark kohl to accentuate her gaze. She was so undeniably beautiful, so helplessly injured and feeble and conversely so powerful in her audacity. There was an exotic regality about her, forged from her untainted tanar'ri blood, unquestioned splendor, political risk-taking and physical defenselessness. Her vulnerability juxtaposed her planar strength, beguiling Nevalle, who broke through the crowd to stand beside her.

He said, "Let us be the better men, then, and show our prisoner the courtesy and culture of our city."

"Show her the culture hers lacks?" Adelaide purred, emerging from the crowd in a sleek dress of muted grey. Her mask, covered in dragon's scales, framed her glacial eyes in a bestial, reptilian inhumanity. She stepped forth, at least a half-head taller than the tanar'ri. She clutched the demon by the throat, tilting her head upwards, "Very well then, remain with us. Do you dance, little succubus?"

The string quartet had begun their first song, the trill of a violin marking the notes of a serenade. The legato beckoned the masked crowd to dance and a contagious waltz broke the motionlessness of the crowd. Adelaide smiled as Axarthys dipped into a low, dainty curtsy, saying, "My lady Cryhart, you will not find a succubus who could best me in courtly dance."

"You'll find that hard to prove with no dancing partner." Adelaide snorted, "Nevalle, why don't you treat your prisoner to a dance? Go on. She won't bite… or ask for your hand in marriage."

"An astute suggestion, Adelaide. Axarthys, would you dance with me?" He said, extending a hand as he smiled wryly towards Adelaide. Hesitant though yielding, Axarthys lifted the corner of her gown and bowed, surrendering one of her gloved hands to him.

"You… you aren't being _serious_." Adelaide, sincerely astonished, stated. Axarthys had begun to tiptoe in fleet step across the polished stone floor, hand in hand with the knight as he led her through the song, a hand on the base of her slender, sickly hip. Adelaide watched, horrified, as they waltzed off into the mass of drunk, dancing denizens, the tap of their footsteps music of its own in a distinctive, rhythmic percussion that echoed the song being played. They moved terribly fast, the tanar'ri's expert feet guiding her flawlessly through the maneuvers of classic Neverwintan dance. Nevalle was impressed with her courtly knowledge and apparent prowess, challenging her with the quickening of his steps in the dance only to have her match his pace faultlessly. Axarthys lifted her chin, her grey and defenseless throat exposed, loose plaits of hair waving in the motion of the dance. Her lips formed an upright crescent, glassy pink surface pleased.

"I'm not sure I've ever been so contented to see her shocked," Nevalle noted to Axarthys as they gyrated in a whirl of red and yellow fabric, "She's been an arrow to the side over your case and the Docks incident."

"I am pleased to have helped you infuriate her. It is an honor to have shocked her so." Axarthys responded, leaning in to him as the serenade slowed, dissolving into the purr of a minuet. Her forehead pressed into the broadness of his chest, her breath hot with fever. Her affliction had not been fully overcome, Nevalle realized, taking her fingers in his as she breathed harder. His hands shifted to her neck, to feel her pulse, touching the bareness of her skin for the first time. Her fingers fell from his chest to linger on his sleeve, her preternatural aura tingling against his mortal appendage. There was a sensation as if a warm, salty tide ebbing at the slate of his mind, and as he tried to return to normal consciousness, he only collapsed deeper into the pit of feeling. All that remained of reality was Axarthys's hand on his arm, a tryst of skin and skin separated only by cotton.

_Sickness, pallor. Am I pale, has color drained, where has it gone?_ He heard echoed in his thoughts. The phrases were senseless, continuing, _Pain has left, sickness gone with it. Touch, his touch, mortal, warmth- divine, oh, as if I feel Tyr's hands, Tyr's hands are on me as a holy touch- tingling, no, why does not it burn? Red Fallow's Watch- there was mud, war. Trolls, no… no, orcs. You were so weak, bleeding… there was a knife trapped in your shoulder, and Nasher could not lay the back of his sword across your shoulders for it when he proclaimed you as his soldier… decorum of a knighting ceremony abandoned, but you were brave, you were brave, you deserved to have that title. _

_Axarthys? _He thought. Had she entered his mind, invaded his thoughts? Possessed him?

The connection detached, Axarthys pulling from him, her cheeks colorless beneath her tattoos. Immediately Nevalle was disconnected from the mental link, reality crashing over him in all its weight. Her hands were on either side of her forehead, her limbs trembling. She wheezed, "It was so, so damp… there was mud, and orcs."

"What's wrong?" He asked, fearful to collect her in his arms again, only approaching her. She was repeating senseless utterances of thoughts, seemingly recollecting his knighting ceremony. Then, an epiphany. Tanar'ri's, their _telepathy_. She must have exchanged thoughts with him. Her power to communicate psychically was initiated by touch. His excitement bubbled- _that _was why those directly involved with her capture at the Docks couldn't be found. They'd handled her, skin-to-skin, and her overpowering thoughts had erased theirs, leaving them in a mental fog and goading their irritability with her, instigating violence. If there was some way to utilize that fact, to make it appear to the criminals it wasn't entirely their fault, he could provoke them into admitting involvement…

He deserted his thoughts at the sight of Axarthys, her weakness evident in the seizure of her hands, her shoulders shimmering in a coating of sweat and oils dabbled on her throat. A heat burned in his ribcage, rising from the core of his being, at seeing her, this once-formidable tanar'ri, as feeble as a child. It reduced her beauty to one comprehendible to mortals, lessened the aura of her unearthly, hellish power to the dim glow of the most stunning of human women. Suddenly, she was obtainable, a creature he could sympathize in her illness with, as easily understood as his peer. Close to collapsing, he caught her in his arms, standing her to her feet.

"I-I was too swift to leave my quarters. I am weak still, exhausted." Axarthys said, "I shall repose over by the champagne; surely sitting a moment and downing a glass should cure the malaise. I only came here tonight to express my gratitude for all you have graciously done for me. In complete sincerity, thank you."

"I'll escort you to-"

"It is a short distance." She declined, falling into a shallow curtsy. Wary of her, his eyes pursued her path until she was lost to him in the crowd, their drunken masses blind to her nearness to them. Axarthys had floated towards the tables, drawing close to a seat, when a fresh song erupted from the string quarter: an eased, haunting requiem, the corresponding dance the swaying of couples in one another's embrace. Weaving through a gathering of court dancers in their striped blue finery and a hoard of bloated-bellied merchants in their foreign damasks, Axarthys approached an empty table only to be swept into the arms of a man draped entirely in black.

"I was on my way to be seated. I apologize; I am too taxed to dance." She said, her palms pressed on his torso to attempt to break the embrace and return to the tables. His hands only bore her tighter, his feet guiding them to the farthest reaches of the ballroom. Axarthys struggled as best she could, whimpering.

"My _lady_, you act as though I intrude upon your good health in simply asking for a dance." He rumbled in her ear, a tenor, predatory voice filling the crevices of her mind. Axarthys's breathing escalated, her steps reverted in the dance so as to break from his grasp. His hands wrapped firmly around her forearms, crushing the fragile skeleton of her limbs in his iron-fisted grip. He uttered, "Sweet _Lamb_, it has been so long, over four years. This date marks it, you know. The day I watched you slay the Knight Captain."

_Bishop_.

Axarthys summoned all the might within her to thrash and scream, her shout only capable of escaping her mouth as a pitiable sob. She battled the tightening in his arms' encirclement until she was forced flatly against him, one of his daggers pressed against her hip. Its blade laid against the boning of her bodice, a poised fang threatening to penetrate her should the dance grow any quicker in its tempo. The ranger dragged her failing steps through the dance, shaking his head at her.

"Little Axarthys, have these Neverwintan fools afflicted you with their beliefs, possibly their hatred of me? You struggle so, _you_, who claimed you loved me so very, very much. You swore you would return to me, and you never did. You forced me to come to you." Bishop growled passionately into her ear.

"You left to _die _within these walls, you did, and now you expect me to have sought you out? Three days' time I lay sedated, withering from the burn across my back, and it was Sir Nevalle- _not _you, my champion, my once-beloved, that came to my aid." She wept, "_You_ _abandoned me to die at the Docks_."

"Hush, my love. Your suffering you may speak of later, and I am sure Loviatar will reward you well for it. Then we can escape your goddess, leave this city and live freely in the wilds of Neverwinter, as once we did." He offered in a whisper, gnawing on the outside of her ear. She tore her face from him. Instinctively Bishop drove the blade into her side at her movement. Axarthys snatched free a hand, immediately diving to ensnare the blade in her grasp. As the ranger twisted the knife to pierce her hip, her hand's interior flesh tore, sinew bisected beneath her silken glove. He muffled her scream with the cup of his hand. Bishop smiled, "My silly Lamb, look what you've done. Blessedly, should you come with me, I'll have the right potions to heal it."

He stepped backwards, pulling Axarthys forward in the continuation of the dance. Instead of tromping into open air, even into the fellow dancers, Bishop had stepped into the hilt of a greatsword. It was drawn against his back, slipped from under the cloak of one of the men's costumes. Bishop whirled on his heels, Axarthys kept before him like a shield. He faced the red-cloaked, white-masked Nevalle, his sword half-drawn from beneath his roquelaire.

"Release her. She is a prisoner of Neverwinter and will be treated with the respect of a citizen until she is tried by Tyr." The knight exclaimed. Bishop smiled wryly, twirling a dagger and leaving an arm on Axarthys's hip, flipping her about so that she, too, faced the knight.

"It seems you have a new human pet, my precious Lamb," he cooed in her ear, "I'm hurt, my love. I thought I was the only human you ever cared for. Sad. Though I suppose there's room in Neverwinter for more than one demon-fucker."

The crowd had parted, leaving an empty circle about the three, watching intently as if a stage spectacle or a troupe of performing bards. At Bishop's mutterings Nevalle had fully unsheathed his sword, both hands wrapped firmly about its hilt as he laid the point against the line of the ranger's jaw above Axarthys's head. He warned, "You are a traitor, Bishop, and I will cleave you where you stand if you do not remove your hands from _my _charge at once."

"Nevalle, don't." Axarthys uttered. Her bleeding hand had stained her yellow gown, leaving a river of scarlet staining her side. Nevalle stepped closer, his eyes locked on her. Bishop pulled her hair downwards, the orchids woven in her snowy locks drifting to the floor. He licked the curve of her neck, planting a kiss at the line of her hair even as the point of Nevalle's blade remained on him. As he lowered his face to her shoulder, he felt his face being thrust upwards. As Bishop stumbled backwards Axarthys broke from his grasp, bolting from him in a flurry of yellow silk behind the knight. Bishop snarled and reached for the rapier hidden at his back, fumbling to free it from its scabbard. By then Casavir had joined Nevalle, only a decorative shield torn from its fixture on the wall as defense.

"You were bold to return here, Bishop, and intrude on our city's peace in such a way." Casavir denounced the ranger. Bishop, his blade finally drawn, dodged Nevalle's first lunge and charged at the paladin, leaping to try and impale Casavir on his blade. Instead, the paladin parried his attack, the shield descending in a helix to send Bishop's rapier, trapped in the wood, clattering to the floor. Lurching for it, Bishop felt Nevalle's greatsword looping under his arm, slicing a flawless gash in the underside of his elbow. Tumbling across the floor and regaining his weapon, Bishop rose to circular-parry Nevalle's next attack, locking their blades as Casavir retreated to seek out a new weapon.

"Tell me, Nevalle," Bishop smiled, "How much do you want to see Axarthys swinging dead from the gallows?" 

"It would only bring me joy, traitor of Neverwinter," he answered, "if it was _you_ that was hanging."

Bishop growled as he feinted, collapsing to his feet as his rapier fell from the tangle of blades, its hilt landing precisely in Bishop's awaiting palm. Momentarily stymied, Nevalle regained his original stance, though not swiftly enough to dodge the missile of Bishop's launched blade, propelled by the ranger's arms, diving for the knight. The sword's aim fell true, lodging between two of Nevalle's ribs. Instinctively the knight rolled onto his side. The sword's point, still implanted in his body, carried the weight of the rapier- and dragging Bishop- onto the floor. Axarthys cried out, kneeling beside the fallen knight.

"Ne-Nevalle-" She choked. Bishop kicked the knight onto his back, his boot against the side of his blade as he tugged it from in-between Nevalle's ribs. Axarthys gasped, maw trembling at the severity of the wound. She tore off her gloves, her own bleeding hand cupping the crater left from Bishop's blade as she struggled to staunch the bleeding. She felt the scarlet tip of Bishop's rapier lifting a loose tress of her hair.

"Still _so _beautiful," he snarled lowly, "And _so_ helpless. Has your white knight fallen, my precious damsel? Fear not- your humble woodsman has come to fill his stead."

He paced around Nevalle's defeated form, his rapier outlining Axarthys's neck down to her bare shoulder. Unmoving, Axarthys's pink eyes fixed on his honey-colored ones, disquieting and calculating in their stare. Narrowing his gaze, Bishop hesitated. She was poised to retaliate. The ranger, cautious, took a single more step towards her, his rapier's tip sinking to press between her breasts. Without warning Axarthys ducked beneath his blade, Nevalle's sword drawn from behind her. She swung it upwards as she stood, driving it perpendicular to Bishop's navel. Lowering on his knees and rotating to gash open her throat in a semicircle slashing motion, Nevalle's sword struck him through his thigh, shattering the bone as it pierced through the marrow and out the back of his leg, pinning him to the floor as it cleaved the stone in the fissure adjoining two rocks. Bishop's rapier missed Axarthys's throat as he became nailed to the floor, shrieking in the misery of his decimated leg.

Casavir trotted up to the scene, Adelaide beside him. He dropped his mace, eyeing the writhing Bishop. Adelaide ignored the agonized ranger, instead stooping to Nevalle's side to pry away the cloak and tunic, examining his wound. Axarthys, exhausted, lay beside Nevalle, her head replaced on his shoulder. Adelaide motioned to Casavir to beckon him to join her, and he knelt beside her as she advised, "Ignore the ranger, fool. Even if he breaks free from being… _crucified_ to the floor, his thigh bone will be completely shattered. He won't be able to walk I suspect not for many months, if ever at all. Leave him to die and spare him your senseless mercy."

By this time, Darmon and Sand had joined Adelaide, surrounding Nevalle around his feet. Adelaide explained, "Look, the sword struck Nevalle directly between the bone. There are, blessedly, no fractures-" she said, pressing on the curve of Nevalle's ribcage to illicit a muffled groan. He withheld his suffering honorably well, teeth clenched with lips sealed. Adelaide peered up at Casavir, then to the wound to say, erasing Casavir's slight mask of relief, "-well, that _sounds_ wonderful, _doesn't_ it? But the muscle is torn and the rapier seems to have punctured all the way through his lung."

"Then we'd best fetch healing potions." Casavir said, moving to stand only to feel Adelaide's hand on his knee.

"You _idiot_," she hissed, "He will internally _drown_ if you pour healing potions into his lung. You make me question how you ever got out of Old Owl Well alive. Sand, what spells have you to heal the wound until he can be properly treated?"

Before Sand replied, Bishop yelped in pain, hands wrapped around his wound as blood pooled down his leg, invisible as it tracked down his black breeches and suddenly realized, crimson cast against the stone on the ground. Casavir stood to remove the blade, an arm around one of the ranger's shoulders as he lifted him, saying, "I will escort him to the dungeon and alert a healer."

"No-" a voice insisted, quieted by injury. It was Nevalle, who ordered through heaving breaths, "-Take him to the infirmary… report to Nasher."

"At once." Casavir nodded, heaving the bleeding ranger over a shoulder to carry him off through the crowd. With his leave, Adelaide returned to her captain, looking sharply towards Sand. The wizard shrugged.

"My healing skills are minimal at best, compared to a cleric." He answered.

"I… I may help." Axarthys offered. The Nine and the wizard exchanged glances, the gathered crowd gasping, glaring and glowering at the demon, as if her offer of aid would undoubtedly be the kiss of death for their Captain of the Nine. And yet none resisted her offer, silent in response to it. Axarthys decided to act upon her proposition. She reached a hand for his wound, settling her palm over the gaping hole. She could sense the tensing of his veins, the thumping of his overworked heart, then the thoughts, the very pain he felt. Her telepathy began to take hold of him, her thoughts and his connected.

_Listen well to my voice_, she soothingly transmitted into the chaos of his thoughts, _Capable I am of sealing your wound, but you must remain still, no matter the pain you feel as I do so. I shall advise you as once you did me: if you are brave, I will be fast._

_I-I cannot breathe_, his horrified thoughts echoed in her. She tapped into the well of his subconscious, into the mechanics of his involuntary bodily actions. Axarthys imposed her thoughts on this, forcing his nerves to transmit the command to keep his breathing steadied and to support his lung to save it from collapsing.

Maintaining the strength of their connection, Axarthys summoned her hellish magic into her touch. Fire spanned from her fingertips, scorching the wounded flesh to close it in a burn. Nevalle writhed terribly beneath her, and too weak to withstand it, Axarthys relied on her thoughts, cooing in his mind, _Stay still for me. _

_Stay still?! Oh, certainly, allow you to further the misery! Indeed, I'll just lay prostrate before your altar of pain and submit to the torments of a tanar'ri! Surely _that_ is a reasonable reaction. Holy Tyr! Excuse me, that _burns_. Stop it! What are you doing?! _He fumed in his thoughts. Axarthys smiled faintly, exterior to her thoughts, as she removed her hand and glanced to the burn. The dried blood had caked around it, the stench of singed flesh permeating the air, however the intended affect had been achieved. Releasing her touch, she rolled onto her opposite side away from Nevalle, consciousness diminishing into a lull at having expended her energy.

"Well, aren't we a bright star in the sky?" Adelaide snorted at Axarthys's method. She rose to her feet, followed by Sand and Darmon. The mass of people had scattered as Casavir returned, the royal guard pouring in around him to assess the duel, some dashing immediately to Nevalle's side and others instructing the throng to remain there until the wounded had been seen to and removed from the room. Worried onlookers and engrossed bystanders watched as the guard helped their captain to his feet, outstretching his arms around their shoulders.

"Casavir," Nevalle weakly called. The paladin reported to him and Nevalle uttered, "See to Axarthys. Station guards outside her door- if Bishop finds some way to reach her and harms her… I won't be able to sleep thinking he's attacked my charge."

"I will defend her with my life." He swore, a hand on his peer's shoulder, "Rest well- I will let no harm come to her."

As they parted, Casavir scooped Axarthys into his arms. Adelaide sauntered towards the paladin. Hers was a grim smile plastering her face, contorting the shape of her cheeks. Casavir's arms wrapped taut around the tanar'ri. Sand joined Adelaide, standing in front of Casavir. The frightening stare of the knight of the Nine, her mouth now furiously pleased in its convoluted crescent, mocked, "The turncoat assigned to care for the demon, ah, how appropriate. And while we hold vigil at our captain Nevalle's side, you'll be fulfilling your assignment protecting and harboring the murderer of your love. Oh, my dear Casavir, how fate bears you in such disfavor!"

"On the contrary," the paladin said, "I have found it in my heart to mourn this tanar'ri, and for it, Fate will treat me kindly. Adelaide, have you so forgotten? 'You were a stranger to sorrow: therefore fate has cursed you'."

He broke past Sand and Adelaide, halving their close bodies as he'd pushed past them, transcending their stations to whisk the frail demon to her chambers. Followed by the drainage of the rest of the crowd, leaking from the ballroom to flow out the single entrance, Adelaide chuckled solemnly and bitterly, watching the flustered masses chattering and darting for the exit, their feathers ruffled- literally, in the fletching of their masks, and figuratively, in the expressions of bewilderment they wore beneath their guises. Sand scoffed as the final attendants of the dance shuffled off, then the wizard faced Adelaide.

"With Bishop here, your revised testimony will not stand his scrutiny. Even my words may have been rendered useless, depending on how he states his tale." He said. The paladin shook her head, satisfaction stemming on her countenance at her own thoughts.

"Oh, my sweet Sand, after tonight-" she answered, "-I have a feeling Bishop will be on _our_ side."

-

Author's Notes:

Holy crap, I had no idea I could cram so much PLOT into one chapter, let alone a single scene. My brain kind of wants to explode. I am NEVER going to do that again! Okay. I DID get to write as Nevalle, so I had fun writing. Any ways, I wasn't thrilled with this post, but it's the climax of the tale I guess (can I say that without any sexual connotation? No? Then, well, never mind) and lots of stuff had to happen. Oh, and a shameless self-plug: I finished the Casavir and Sand plushies, so to see them check out my Deviantart gallery, linked in my profile.

Before I'm off, THANK YOU FOR MORE THAT 500 HITS! And for the handful who've stuck this far with it, thanks for coming along for the ride!

Happy reading always,

Valah


	7. Interlude IV: Chapter Five

Interlude IV: Chapter Five

Sulfurous columns of smoke and pillars of fire rose from the gargantuan chamber, the largest of the hollows of a system of caves. Pools of magma boiled and gnawed restlessly on the stone walks of the place, heating the cavern and fending off the subterranean chill deep within the Abyss. Glittering stalactites formed mineral chandeliers above a heaping stash of precious jewels and golden trinkets. The abyssal vault shimmered with riches, the vivid gold of the coins stacked at the center of the room mirrored onto a tanar'ri walking towards the treasure, casting metallic flecks onto the midnight of his hair.

He scaled the cache, his nimble reddish limbs supplementing his faded orange wings and the sway of his forked tail keeping balance in climbing the mountainous load. At its peak, he stood atop a chest, his rust-colored eyes scrutinizing the cave. Dissatisfied, he poised himself cross-legged on the chest, wings unfolded and draped across the hoard. A thunderous rumble brought a smirk to his sadistic lips, parting them to the glimmer of lustrous fangs. From the winding cave system leading into the antechamber, a massive demon eighteen feet in height, limbs scaled and scorpion-tail lashing, emerged. He straightened his posture, dual baboon heads' eyes locking on the perched demon with an arrogant disparagement.

"Ah, Dantalion, my wayward general. What brings your sorry hide into my private vaults? Perchance an offering of your black hand in my service, only to serve your own interests? A plea for control of another ten legions of demons?" His twin voices boomed. The seated demon laughed, a thick, deep noise reverberated from the pit of his throat. Raising his handsome face he rolled his shoulders back, outstretching his wings in predatory exhibition.

"I'm hurt, your _highness Demogorgon_," He mocked, stressing the syllables of the Prince of Demons' royal title, "I thought you held me in higher esteem than a supercilious mercenary."

"Silence your sarcasm. Thank your talents in war; they are all that keep you breathing in this realm. Now state your business quickly or I will happily display your severed head on a plaque above my throne." Demogorgon demanded. Dantalion thrust his wings upward, hovering to land on the chest on the soles of his ebony boots, the thud of his step attesting to the weight of his armor. His orange eyes alit with proposition.

"Ah, what threats. Very well. Your _majesty_, I have been informed by the House Saintrowe that one of their daughters is imprisoned in Faerun, in the city of Neverwinter. Apparently there was _quite_ the mess, because her crime was slaying the arch-succubus, Blooden, an agent of the Purging Duke Alvarez. Now, Alvarez could give a rat's ass for the Saintrowe daughter, but her family wants her returned, and requested my _talents_, as you so eloquently called them." Dantalion announced. Demogorgon's audible growl roared throughout the cavern.

"Alvarez was a fool not to employ a demon of less power." Demogorgon replied. Dantalion shrugged.

"Perhaps. But this daughter was long employed by him, and was a guardian of one of Alvarez's named mortal champions. He trusted her," Dantalion responded, hopping from the chest to surf the avalanche of gold coins of jewels as he adroitly surfed to the flat cave floor below, standing beneath the towering Prince of Demons, "Alvarez, blessedly, has little to deal with the matter at hand. I am here request you allow me to siege this city with the whole of my thirty-six legions and return the daughter of the House Saintrowe to her family."

Demogorgon hesitated, considering the proposition. He paced the cavern, the clamor of his steps vibrating in the earth beneath Dantalion. The tanar'ri faced him with both heads' eyes narrowed, saying, "The demoness Balimynah, leader of the Saintrowes, commands thirty legions of demons. That number does not include her immediate family of archdemons, a force mighty enough to return a single demon to the Abyss. She has adequate manpower to siege Neverwinter."

"Balimynah could take the city in a fortnight, I have no doubt. What she cannot afford is so directly tarnishing her reputation amongst the nobles of Faerun by attacking one of their cities. Emissaries have politics to concern over," Dantalion answered, smiling, "Besides, are we not demons, my _liege_? Would it not please you to beget the chaos of the Abyss on the mortal plane?"

"No. The Blood War demands our attention, and if not that, then the corruption of humanity concerns us. We have not the resources to splurge saving this Saintrowe daughter. A single demon could infiltrate the city and escape with her," Demogorgon persisted. He paused, a cruel grin spreading on his faces as he said, "Ah, I nearly forgot. Axarthys, she is your child, is she not?"

Dantalion's features stiffened with a quiet horror, lips tensing as he nodded. Demogorgon mused aloud, "And so demon-kind tears at the seams. The very love that would compel you to save your child, how… _unlike_ the cruelty the tanar'ri are feared for. This love is a sign of-"

"-My interest to protect a powerful asset of the House Saintrowe." He assured. Demogorgon chuckled.

"Certainly," he replied, "Very well. Take your thirty-six legions and siege this city. If it satiates your bloodlust or halts the breaking of your heart, I will grant you permission. However, it is my stipulation that if she is rescued, you must surrender her to me. I lack a worthy consort to amuse me with their beauty, and I have been told of this Axarthys's loveliness and grace."

"It would be an honor to give you my daughter." Dantalion answered, words untainted by sarcasm. Demogorgon smiled wretchedly.

"Excellent. Now go, Dantalion, and prepare your forces. Your presence sullies these vaults." Demogorgon said. Dantalion's fangs ruptured the interior flesh of his mouth as he choked on a satisfied smile. He collapsed into a bow, departing to say:

"A pleasure doing business, your _highness_."

-

There were screams from the cell.

Bishop's very limb was rotting. One week of the damp, grimy cell had aggravated his wound, infecting the carelessly wrapped injury. Congealed blood and blackened, decaying flesh worsened the spectacle, instantaneously transforming him into a grotesque celebrity for the guards to watch suffer. The ranger ambled about the cell on a single leg, the shattered femur of his opposite limb rendering that appendage useless. He rattled the prison bars as he grasped them for support, begging for a reprieve, for medication to dull the pain and cure the infection that threatened to course up his leg and sicken his whole body. Endless, hoarse screams emanated from his cell, splitting the eardrums of the guards stationed by his cage. They ignored him, accustomed to the racket.

Wasting away, feeling the life seeped from him, he wept for death. It was as if his private Red Fallow's Watch, his singular condemnation. Again, he wished to die, again, the weight of humanity smothered him, again, agony claimed him. But this time, there would be no Axarthys. There would be no savior. _She _had driven the blade through his leg and caused his wound. She had promised to defend him in life, and she would be the death of him.

Didn't he want it, though? Death? Hadn't she given him his wish?

No. There would _be_ no death, only pain. Hi fury refueled, Bishop shrieked, "_Axarthys, you lied! You lied to me and told me you'd protect me, and you abandoned me! I _trusted _you, Axarthys! I trusted you, you bitch!_"

He sunk to the bottom of his cell, sodden with the moisture of a puddle there. The fragile, remaining faith he'd had, he'd invested in Axarthys Saintrowe. All of his love, his trust, his honor, his morality, whatever existed of his inherent human goodness had been ruthlessly devastated. She had once offered him the chalice, and he drank from it. Now he realized the wine was merely water, if not poison. Bishop had been bested by a woman, a _demon_. His faith had been her tool, her plaything.

And she would not live while still he breathed.

-

The first day, hope failed. The pain was unbearable, the wound an undefeatable foe he could not bear to vainly battle, surrendering to the efforts of Neverwinter's healers, drained of his own will. The second and the third days were both voids- sleep had stolen those days from him. The fourth, the pain had been halved, inspiring him to prop himself up to swallow the foul-tasting potions offered to him. The fifth, the wound had closed, the pain whittled to a numbing throb. The sixth, he walked once more, revived yet weary. And the seventh, he stood on the bridge outside the Merchant Quarter, the evening briefly descended. His black boots and breeches blended with the evening, green tunic emerald in the lantern light. The burn of sherry diluted his senses, distracting him from his pain.

Now that the week was complete, Nevalle had awakened into a cruel reality. The Docks swarmed yet with the discontent of Axarthys's survival, aggravated by her appearance at the masquerade. The investigation had done little for justice's sake. All that would quell the restless Neverwintan populous was the tanar'ri's death, and that could only lead to war, one his people would surely lose against demons. The city was too weak. Neverwinter had only just recovered from the Plague and battle. Nevalle's childhood had been spent in these darkest days of the city- it was, he supposed, a part of why he chose to become a knight, then one of the Nine, and then their captain. To him, Neverwinter was not worth the price of a tanar'ri's head.

_Is any city?_ He mused. Nevalle failed to convince himself that the thought concerned his value of Neverwinter's well being. Somehow the thought was more rooted in his affection for Axarthys, in her pricelessness, than in his duty to the city. As much as it horrified him, he couldn't deny his fixation of her. Nevalle had summoned her to his chambers that week, claiming to his peers- and to himself- that he could not allow her case to rest stagnant as he healed. During their meetings it dawned on him that it was simply the sound of her voice, the music of her laughter and the lament of her tears that he wished to hear, not the facts of her case. Beneath the mask of her demonic lineage, there was a noblewoman, a princess of her people. She spoke eloquently, knew every element of royal culture, was thrice as civilized as most mortals. In a word, she was magnetic.

He'd invited her to join him at the bridge, to watch the stars rise on the veil of the night sky. Since Bishop's infiltration of Castle Never she'd been confined to her quarters and occasionally his. To hear the clap of her boots on the bridge and the shuffle of her burgundy velvet gown fluttering at her ankles brought him a happiness he'd never experienced. He lingered in the anticipation, pausing a moment before he glanced down at her diminutive, slender form leaning on the bridge's railing, her snowy tresses coiling down her back in large curls from beneath a scarf swathed over her shoulders and around her face. So petite and slim was she it was difficult to believe her a demon, let alone one of influence amongst her people. Her feminine minuteness juxtaposed her strength.

Nevalle expected her to wait to be greeted, as he'd invited her and such was courtesy. He was surprised to hear her voice, "I had toyed with the image of you reposing here along the bridge in full chain mail brandishing some dreadful weapon. To see you so detached from the knightly world saddens me."

"Then the next time we meet, I shall wear full plate armor, carrying the most fearsome of swords, astride the finest of Nasher's steeds." He smiled tenderly. She only frowned, gazing out to the river and the ocean beyond, eyes fixated on the ships fading into the horizon, the nighttime sky.

"Shall there _be_ a next time?" She asked, and painfully he realized the day of her departure. On the morrow, the following night, she would fleet from Neverwinter, exiled far from the shores of his city. His hand rested atop hers in comfort, feeling the gauze of a bandage beneath through his glove. The picture of her, standing atop the fallen yellow orchids from her hair with blood streaming down the side of her golden gown, pierced his softened perception. The image penetrated the numb of the sherry.

"I am sorry the ranger inflicted this upon you." He uttered, lifting her hand to lay it between both of his. She stepped in close, setting her uninjured hand atop their fingers' embrace.

"No, it is I who must apologize. In my name you nearly died, and a week's time you suffered for naught but my honor. Do not dismiss your service as a part of your duty to Tyr; I will not have it. Regardless of motive you surrendered yourself for me, and I am thankful." She bowed her head, "I pray my sincerity may be recompense for all you have done in my name."

He lifted her hand, kissed the back of it. In the momentary touch her telepathy echoed her thought: joy, a sort of mournful elation that quickened the pumping of the beat of her heart. His jaw brushed her grey flesh as he withdrew, relinquishing her hand to avow, "It is a privilege to have defended you, my lady."

Axarthys fell into the trunk of his chest, the crest of her head reaching his shoulders. Her arms clung around his waist as she pressed her cheek against him. In return, he'd woven his fingers together, setting them at her neck aloft the cloud of her hair. His chin lowered to rest atop her head between the arrows of her horns, watching the harbor glitter with ships and vessels of innumerable flags illuminated by the lighthouses of Neverwinter. There was a part of Nevalle that desired nothing more than to live that moment for a hundred thousands years, and another part of him that reviled the first's yearning. Half of his heart was perpetually anchored to Neverwinter, corrupting the happiness he frantically sought to feel harboring the tanar'ri in his arms.

They lingered in one another's embrace an hour's time, speechless with sorrow as they watched the ships, a potent reminder of Axarthys's exile. The demon clung to the knight, the final fortress of her internal war with the human world, the ephemeral symbol of her fleeting faith in humankind. Where Bishop's abandonment emptied her, the knight had filled the void, and where once she had tirelessly defended Bishop without cause, now the knight defended her, for naught but the sake of her honor. The knight clung to the demon, the withering rose of his dying garden, the vanishing symbol of the half of his soul not sold to Neverwinter. Where Tyr's demands emptied him, the demon had filled the void, and where once he tirelessly defended Neverwinter with too much cause, now the demon he defended, for naught but the sake of her honor.

And together, they clung to one another for hope, for love, for sorrow.

-

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Bishop's eyes parted, darting about the pitch-blackness of his cage. Restless sleep finally washed over him, only to have him wakened. He rolled on his side, cursing as his limbs writhed against the stone to move his body. The bedroll assisted little in warming the chill of the stone, nor did it combat the stiffness of the surface, rendering sleep unattainable. The ranger drew the flimsy sheet from his face, listening.

_Tap. Tap._

Absent of guards, sounds in the dungeons had dissipated to a low drone of moans and cries. And yet the noise was metallic, as if a weapon striking the bars of his cage. No, not a weapon, something smaller. Armor, perhaps, gauntlets. He struggled, sat upwards. Bishop snapped, "Who the hell is it?"

The noise stopped. A flambeau was drawn, held to the intruder's face. The light cast definite shadows over the war-hardened visage of a paladin, her eyes so crystalline a shade of blue they turned red in the presence of the flame, her lips pressed into a dismal contour. She answered in a protracted hiss, "Your worst nightmare should you not accept my offer."

"Adelaide Cryhart. Well, I'm sure whatever the offer, I'm not about to take it. I recall you instructing a certain paladin, Casavir, to leave me to die." Bishop retorted.

"How hypocritical of you, Bishop. As I recall, you _wanted_ death at Red Fallow's Watch. You wished to taste it, to go with the demon to the Abyss. Indeed, I remember. You were the reason my family died, Bishop, you and the demon. I'm not sure I could forget," Adelaide rejoined, "Though, I could find it in my heart to forgive you if you help me. I could wipe the slate clean, sever what binds you to Red Fallow's Watch and have your involvement pardoned."

"A pardon for _what?_ Officially, Neverwinter believes Luskans burned the city." Bishop returned. Adelaide chuckled. She knelt to the stone floor, knees outstretched, her metal-plated hands clasping her thighs, confident and poised.

"Maybe you will aid me of your own free will, then." She proposed, leaning against the bars, her fingers winding around the iron, "Help me kill the tanar'ri Axarthys Saintrowe."

Bishop snorted, falling back into his bedroll, "Adelaide, let Red Fallow's Watch rest. Besides, if you in all seriousness intended to kill Axarthys, you should have done it _before_ now. I know what happened at the docks; the other prisoners have been buzzing with the story. You are a fool to think you can kill the demon _now_, while she is kept under carefully guarded lock and key for fear of the very assassination attempt you plot."

"Then we'll have to kill her when she is defenseless." Adelaide responded. Bishop's brow arched, and she explained, "She was exiled to Ruathym. Tomorrow night, she will board a ship and be sailed far off to sea. A perfect opportunity."

"To what, sink a ship's full of people to ensure her death?" Bishop mocked. Her silence affirmed the absurdity of the plot, as if he'd read her precise thoughts.

"Should Axarthys alone die aboard the ship, suspicions will be raised. A tragic… _accident _is simply that, a tragedy, senseless and without cause. And this, Bishop, is where you will shine, should you join me. With the simple treason of unscrewing a hinge, you flooded Crossroad Keep with Garius's forces. I would employ a similar subtlety in this case." Adelaide explained. Bishop, curiosity prodded, shifted on his bedroll to peer at her from the rims of his eyes.

"And what 'subtlety' did you have in mind?"

"It is not uncommon for ships' hulls to thin. Perhaps you could aggravate the process, sanding the base of the ship until, on the open sea, the strain of cargo and human weight would splinter the wood, sinking the vessel." Adelaide proposed. Bishop shook his head against the bedroll.

"Ruathym is an island. Their ships are the veins of their economy- they are kept in flawless condition. A weakened hull would appear careless on their part, so much so it could appear suspicious," he explained, "You would do better weakening the masts, so if they collapsed, the vessel would capsize. That may not appear as reckless."

"Good. Then I suppose you'll do it for me." Adelaide affirmed. He narrowed his gaze, shifting beneath the sheets with a muted groan.

"Certainly. I'll amble up the docks on a single leg, fumble with the masts as I yelp in pain, not only slowed by my injury but attempting to avoid the Watch as well, who would think it odd that a prisoner of Neverwinter was limping about the city." He snarled, teeth clamping onto his tongue to avoid shouting at her and to stifle the vocalization of his pain. Adelaide chuckled bleakly.

"I'll send you a cleric and offer you temporary freedom if you agree," she said, "Remedying both issues. When the task is done, I will see to it that you receive a full pardon and are sent on your way, a free man. I draw too much attention as a knight of the Nine to try and sink this ship; I need your talents. Would you accept?"

Bishop sighed, considering what she proposed. To cure his leg was enough of a payment for killing Axarthys, so intense was his suffering. Freedom was surely agreeable as well. But to work for Adelaide Cryhart? Even more, to kill the woman he had loved, maybe even still loved beneath his rage? Four years Axarthys had surrendered to him, served his every need, desire, whim and want, in addition to swearing his seat at the table of the Purging Duke. Could he betray that? Hadn't he already? No, Axarthys was lost to him, severed from the intimacy she and the ranger once shared. Their love was ash now, and what he thought a phoenix would never rise again. Bishop would submit to this woman, Adelaide. He nodded to the paladin, to her disturbed smile, watching her depart.

_Tap. Tap. Tap_, he heard. He tucked the blankets around his torso, closing his eyes for sleep. Now the noise bothered him little, for he knew it was but the resounding of his pact with the devil.

-

The day was a faded dream, milky in its sun's brilliance dimmed to a glow on the afternoon sky, creating a watercolor palette of the heavens. Sparse, sinewy clouds riddled the pale blues and greys above in slender stains. The fog of the day, along with the humid warmth, made each passing moment blend into the next. It morphed consciousness to sleepwalking, a waking daydream.

Axarthys seemed an extension of the day's vision, ghostly and ethereal, a canvas of greys, pinks and white as she packed her silks and velvets into their trunk. The intoxication of the ghostly lighting empowered the fluidity of her actions, prompting Nevalle to question if he was truly awake to witness the visualization before him. The tanar'ri glided between the bed of her chambers to the foot of her bed, stacking layers of rare fabrics and ropes of gemstones, her movement an angelic velvetiness the knight could not associate with reality. Her departure seemed false, as if Fate had not intended it. The event detached itself from the actuality he felt in his heart.

How could she leave, exiled to Ruathym? He drew next to her, taking a cloak from her to set into the wooden trunk, kneeling next to it. She gazed down at him, a spidery hand upon his shoulder. She uttered, "That is the last of it. I am prepared to leave."

"I am not so sure." He replied gently, more an inward thought posed to himself in exterior words. Nevertheless Axarthys beamed mournfully, closing the trunk to sit atop it, her gaunt legs crossed at their ankles beneath a mass of chiffon. She offered him her hand, beckoning him to sit before her feet, and he obliged her. He shifted his seat, fingers outreached to stroke the bare skin of her ankles. The thinnest sliver of touch had her thoughts, a simple sadness, echo through him.

"I fear there is truth in what you say," Axarthys submitted, her head replaced on a bare, willowy shoulder, "Though immortals have little to fear in punishment. Exile is not eternal, for humans have not the obstinacy to enforce it as long as I will live. Death, death would only have me reborn in the Abyss, and torture is fleeting- pain is blessedly not eternal. My hesitance to leave is for you, Nevalle, for there is not a single way I could find to repay what you have done for me while I exist here in Neverwinter."

"Your gratitude is thanks enough." He assured, and in his earnestness she believed him, standing from the trunk to venture towards the window, staring out onto the streets. She glanced at him, beckoned him to join. He followed, stationed at her side. The roads below bustled with aristocrats and mages, clogging the city's veins. Axarthys watched intently, curving her hand around the upper arm of his sleeve.

"We should make haste to the harbor." She noted.

"We should go, yes," he agreed, "but not with haste."

Axarthys tightened her grasp on his arm. Her cloud of hair pressed against the cotton, the arrows of her horns reposed on their blunt frontal surface upon his sleeve. He escorted her out, the maids scurrying in to the room as they left to gather the tanar'ri's possessions. The tanar'ri clutched to Nevalle as they ventured down the stairs and into the main hall. They walked the long stretch of blue carpet as if the plank, to fall into the ruthless open ocean of Neverwinter's Blacklake district. Axarthys released her anchor, in deference to the realization no knight of Neverwinter could be seen affectionate towards a demon. Sadly she turned her face from him, as if not to shame his public presence with the stain of her gaze.

Nevalle led her through the district, veering into the wrought-iron gateway of Neverwinter's gardens. One last stroll, one last memory. It was as if revisiting the sprawling lawns of flowers and hedges would circumvent their dalliance, beginning as their company would end in the same place. They wandered through the rose gardens, perused the fountains of blue lilies bursting in full bloom above their green leaves, meandered through the paths of violets run purple with regality in their blossoms. Once more, Nevalle and Axarthys reprised their chorus of remembrance, losing themselves in the twists of the hedge maze to grasp one another, hand in hand, where no Neverwintan eyes fell.

When the encore silenced, they found themselves standing at the docks, the ocean winds prying at the invisible embrace they shared in their stare. All had boarded the grand vessel save Axarthys, who listened tearfully to Nevalle's final words to her.

"You will be safe in Ruathym," He promised, "And I pray happy as well."

Axarthys uttered, "In these past months, happiness has only been where you have stood. Mortals will forever scorn me for horns mar my brow. All my faith I invest in you, Nevalle."

"Do not leave you faith here in Neverwinter," He instructed softly, clutching her shoulders. One hand strayed to rest over her heart, her palm reaching to lie atop it. He whispered, "Take your faith with you to Ruathymfor your faith is not mine to take from you. Now go; the ship waits for you."

"I cannot go." She silently bled tears. He shook his head, cupping the back of her neck.

"Once, you told me that walking to your trial, and I said to you, you must. Then I told you it was because I served Lord Nasher, and I was obliged to escort you to court. Now, I tell you because I could not bear allowing you to die in Neverwinter," He responded, "Sometimes for the better we must surrender what we hold most dear. Depart now, precious _Lamb_."

Axarthys's trembling lips signaled tears, though she did not sob. Tears sparkled on the rivers cascading down her cheeks. She nodded, one hesitant step taken backwards. Then another, and another. On the third step she mewled 'goodbye'. On the fourth, 'farewell'. And on the fifth, 'I love you'. With the words Axarthys suddenly wrenched her white hood over her face, shielding her weeping from his sight. She walked, then dashed, for the wooden ramp to the ship's deck. As the boat lifted its anchor and unfurled its sails, Axarthys clung to the balustrade of the vessel's rear, crying audibly as she watched the knight's form fade into the distant fog. When at last he has dematerialized from her sight, the Lamb crumpled to a snowy heap on the deck, her lamentation of tears a siren's song.

She had fruitlessly tried to retain her faith, to retrieve it from Nevalle. In her retreat Axarthys thought she had it, that it once more belonged to her. Now she realized it was not her faith that she abandoned on the shores of Neverwinter, but her happiness, and regardless of where she was in all the realms- whether Ruathym or her native Abyss- she could never be reunited with it in Neverwinter.

-

Author's Notes:

As I will be leaving for vacation this week, this may be the last update for a while. I should be well-rested and inspired when I return (in about a week), though, so the following chapter shouldn't take too long after that.

Now, for this chapter. Oh, dear. The bridge scene? That's **certified guiltless fan-girl writing**! Shameless, indeed. Heck, there aren't enough Nevalle shippers out there, so I can have fun in my own damn story! For my Bishop fan girls, I hope you enjoyed the angst. Emo Bishop is my favorite, muwaha.

So, until next post, happy reading always,

-Valah


	8. Interlude V: Chapter Six

Interlude V: Chapter Six

Never once had Nevalle failed report to Lord Nasher.

Until that morning.

An irrational hatred had overtaken him for the city, and the lord that represented it, that allowed Axarthys Saintrowe to be exiled to Ruathym. Neverwinter marred her in the holy water cast across her back, Neverwinter marred her in the cruelty of the words spat at her, Neverwinter marred her in the blade Bishop drove into the flesh of her hand, Neverwinter marred her in the hood she cowered beneath for fear of assault, Neverwinter marred her in the extinguishing of her honor's flame. Once she had been noble, a princess of demons and an esteemed emissary, naught but the voice that translated the words of mortals to demons, demons to mortals. The innocence of her duty as ambassador vanquished, her face no longer that of a woman but a criminal, no, he could not stand a knight today at court that morning. He had done little to save Axarthys Saintrowe the disgrace of what Neverwinter had dealt her, and though this day he hated Neverwinter, he spared some hate for himself. The thoughts hinted as his failure to uphold the very chivalry his knighthood embodied, to defend the nobility of a woman, and today, today he was no knight.

His suggestion of exile preceded Neverwinter's mistreatment of her, so he could not despise himself wholly. The abhorrence Nevalle reserved for himself was for not intercepting her departure, declaring the injustice of punishing her when already the city itself had done so to an extreme. Exile was too much. How could he have abandoned Axarthys as Bishop had, to suffer a cage in Ruathym? How could he have left her to those miserable tears, to the pitiable breakdown aboard a foreign ship, her poise and her faith drained of her? His obligation to Axarthys transcended that of a captor to his prisoner. Duty would have had him serve her as a knight to a lady.

Nevalle never reported to Lord Nasher that morning.

The past two days' time he'd squandered, unable to care about Neverwinter, distracted by the fear eclipsing his heart that Axarthys suffered needlessly. She swore her love to him, an oath he dared not take lightly. Only weeks prior love betrayed Axarthys at the Docks, rendering her proclamation of love to him a thousand times more sincere. Now, divided by the vastness of the sea from the love she desperately sought in her most trying hour, surely her happiness was forfeit. Her lips would not soon submit to the reticent upturn of her lips in smile. That he was the reason for her sorrow chewed on his heart strings.

Nevalle couldn't report to Lord Nasher.

He failed to dispel her melancholy from his mind. He could not erase the imagined visage of her face, her pink eyes bleeding tears as if from a wound he somehow inflicted upon her. Guilt disabled his ability to reason, shame the barrier that kept his hands from reaching for the tunic of the Nine that lay limp across the pressed linens of his bed. For once, he would not go to Lord Nasher. For once, he would acquiesce to his heart and recover from the emotional trauma caused by the loss of Axarthys Saintrowe. He allotted himself one day to grasp the handles to the doors of his memories of her, one day to close shut the chapter of the tale when he, a knight, had in the circumference of his arms comforted a demon, and in the pads of his lips, kissed the hand of a woman to seal his devotion to the order of chivalry.

-

The vessel swayed in the siege of the ocean, waves crashing upon the hull of the ship to thrust its wooden weight to and fro across the cobalt glass of the water's surface. The sails howled with wind trapped in their fabric, the creak of doors blown from their hinges the battle cry of the ocean at war with humanity, a vengeful and formidable foe. Sailors lurched cross the starboard, merchants clinging to jingling sacks of gold secured on their belts, the captain of the ship staggering before the helm. What exquisite anarchy it was. The night sky overhead denied any starlight to the unlit path of a most perilous journey below, moon shielded by clouds that threatened the downpour of a worse storm.

Then, the heavens were spliced by lightening, and the cleaved clouds bled. Rain drowned the ship's deck. Forth from the grey storm above thunder heralded nature's fury and lightning sliced the sky in blazing gashes. Merchants who ambled upon the deck now had reached the doorway into the lower decks, retreating to their sumptuous quarters to listen to the muffled yelps of the storm outside. Wealth bought them this ignorance. But no wealth in the world could have saved Axarthys.

The storm's intensity strengthened, the cauldron of the ocean stirred into a bottomless whirlpool of rain, hail, chill and wind. The sails creaked, the men screaming over the strident cry of the gale as the sails shuddered, their masts' poles groaning wildly in their stressed wood. Axarthys faced the masts, witnessed sailors plummeting from the crow's nest. Her eyes narrowed, sinking to the base of the pillars. The wood was splitting, and the sails like the wings of some terrifying bird of prey swooped onto the deck, enveloping the crazed seamen working the vessel below. Axarthys's eyes widened, her gasp silenced by the crash of the mast into the deck. Immediately she was aware the ship would capsize, and dashed between sailors to dive beneath the upper deck, racing to her room to thrust open the lid of the chest. She ripped the clothes from their folded neatness, pulling a wooden board out the bottom of the box to take the two items stored there: the blue ribbon Nevalle had tied her orchids in, and a sturdy, frightening whip crafted of red leather. Axarthys longingly clutched its handle, uttering, "I am sorry to have awakened you, _Legion_."

Planting a kiss at the base of the weapon's handle, she tucked it in the belt of her gown to secure the ribbon around her wrist. As the sea filled the careening vessel, Axarthys leapt over the port side of the ship into the treacherous waters. She battle the waves to remain afloat, huffing for air as the curl of sea foam at the crest of the water cascaded over her brow. Thrashing desperately to swim from the vacuum of the sinking boat, Axarthys cried out weakly for aid, hopeless and horrified.

-

Had he been well, creeping about the Docks and weakening the vessel's mast would have been akin to a stroll cross the shores of Black Lake. On a single leg, his wound unhealed and numbed by a nearly lethal dose of sedatives, the ranger had blended with the night's shadows about as well as a jester donning full motley in a crowd of drably-dressed peasants. Crippled by his shattered femur, Bishop relied on the guise of his hat and roquelaire to shelter him from the Watch's probing gaze. He cursed himself for ever allowing Adelaide Cryhart to smuggle him from his cell, pleased only by the ingenuity of the mast's destruction. He'd carved a narrow tunnel into the center of the wood, pouring a miniature vile of acid into the hollow. Sealing the opening with a sliver of a wine bottle's cork, the minute pond of acid trapped inside the mast would gradually destroy the structure. Bishop banked on a storm to aggravate the collapse of the masts. Ultimately, the memory of his task summarized in his mind, the night was no complete failure. However to his displeasure, his injury had hindered enjoyment of the task severely, leaving him in a cantankerous mood.

Returned to his cell, Bishop watched as the priestess sent to heal him arranged the contents of her linen pack on the stone floor and opened a bottle that smelled strongly of rosemary. Her alabaster hands, the prelude to white-sleeved arms, complemented the reddish chocolate of her hair and brightened the spheres of her grey eyes. The fearsome mischief in her gaze provoked Bishop's aroused amusement of her, his eyes meaningfully tracing the outline of her body. Ignoring him, she finished stirring the last ingredients of his medicine, offering him the carafe she'd prepared of it. He extended his hands for it, but she drew the bottle back, wagging a finger to say, "Drink slowly. While I'm sure no one in Neverwinter would mind if you gagged on this, I won't be responsible for it."

"Yes, _mother_." He mocked as he jerked the contents from her grasp. She crossed her arms, a brow arched.

"Camryn Nyx." She corrected, proffering her name. Gulping the potion, Bishop dropped the empty flagon to the stone floor with a clatter and wiped his moist lips, leaning up on his elbows.

"So, when will I be walking again?" He asked. She packed her herbs as she shrugged, a grimace passing momentarily over her features.

"I suspect in a day's time. Walking well, however?" she answered, her eyes meeting his with a professional regret clinging to her stare, "The bone was split straight through. While the flesh can be restored, the bone will re-grow at the angle the sword penetrated. If I risked re-shattering the bone and setting it, I could only damage your leg more. You've suffered much enough already that I fear I wouldn't have the heart to do such a thing. With that, I can reasonably, and unfortunately, foresee that you'll walk with a permanent limp."

The healer's words returned his misery to him. The remainder of the day he sulked on his bedroll, furious with Adelaide for bribing him to do her bidding while returning his success at_ her_ mission with a half-witted healer who swore he'd never walk straight again. If that was true, and the horror bubbled in his throat at the thought, then he could never track again. Like injured, defenseless prey, any predator now would seize and devour him as easy quarry. Bishop's self pity intensified, worsening his anguish as the healing potion revived dead, rotted skin atop the deep crevice of the wound in his leg. _Axarthys_ had inflicted this upon him. _She _had hindered him so, turned predator to prey. His life as a ranger she had squelched. Unlike his prior rage, though, there was satisfaction in knowing he'd been the harbinger of her demise. Axarthys was surely dead, hundreds of leagues sunken beneath the ocean tides.

Adelaide Cryhart frequented his cell that night, the rapping of her armored hand quickened in its rhythm on the cage bars. Bishop stretched across his bedroll casually, hands behind his head. Flambeau at hand, the paladin stopped halfway between the sides of the cell bars, her profile a charred shadow amidst the glow of the firelight. She uttered, strangely quiet with words mechanical as if the veneer of the fiercest of rage, "I am glad you find the accommodations of your cell comfortable, for you may very well remain here quite a long time."

"Considering how long it took you to bring me a healer, yes, I think I _will_ be here a while. In fact, I'll wager my soul that you haven't even spoken to Nasher of my pardon." Bishop snapped. Adelaide smiled at his ferocity, a haunting gentleness evident in her speech.

"Nothing is working as planned." She whispered. Bishop sat up, fists formed from his hands.

"What?" He glared in question. Adelaide's face rotated, the whole of her countenance visible. The impassiveness of her features was the mask for the severity of the news it delivered through its porcelain lips.

"So much you need to know, too much. The vessel sank as intended. Our scouts reported it," she mouthed, "And all went to hell. Suspicions arose. I blackmailed the wizard Sand, threatening to accuse him of the crime, to report to Nasher he wished to spoil relations between Neverwinter and Ruathym for the bitterness he felt as Nevalle's forced agent. His punishment I devised soundly and we may hope it will lead to your freedom, but there is _more_. Neverwinter's finest scouts report intensified demon populations in the Neverwinter Wood. Open war with the Abyss looms."

"Didn't you consider that could happen? You _killed_ a valuable archdemon." He mumbled. A tense pause ensued. Adelaide outstretched her arms, grasping the furthest bars she could reach in the palms of her armored hands. Her cheekbones rested against the cage, her breath a balmy fog on the frosty dungeon air. Sarcastic, once detached eyes blazed with uncontrolled internal fury. Adelaide flexed her fingers, a rhythmic legato of raps on the iron bars entailing. The longsword swinging from the steel-tipped scabbard at her hip struck the bars in a metallic ring, echoing as the backdrop to her frighteningly composed, metallic lullabye. The storm of the blue of her eyes settled into a drained emotional blankness, her maw forming around the words:

"Axarthys Saintrowe survived."

-

Lord Nasher never sent for Nevalle. Morning had long passed into late afternoon, and slim a chance it was that his lord would ever send for him that day. Perhaps Nasher had recognized from the emptiness in the knight's eyes or the silent solitude of his speechlessness the two days following Axarthys's exile that his right-hand needed a day's worth of reclusion to anesthetize his guilt. Grateful for his Lord's absent intrusion, Nevalle soaked his throat with the remainder of the bottle of sherry at his desk, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as even the wine's placid poison could not erase the poignant visions of the weeping Axarthys. His guiltiness tired him. Maybe Lord Nasher would have done better to send someone for him, to divert Nevalle from the clarity of the image of the tanar'ri's face in his mind.

Moseying to his feet, he sauntered towards the fireplace to crumple into a plush seat there. The crackling flame before him recalled images of Axarthys, burned not by fire but holy water, sprawled across coverlets and bare from the shoulders to her waist, his touch against the grey of her skin so real he could feel its smoothness countless days later. Groaning, he muttered aloud, "Axarthys, go away."

The memories of her strengthened again. He wasn't drunk enough to forget her, and it would take an eternity to become completely inebriated on weak wine. Consciously attempting to become drunk was daft, he knew. Recalling ten years' past, at the age of twenty-two, he'd vomited two days straight from a round of whiskey after a particularly trying battle, he winced painfully, some guilt reserved for himself. He'd avoided drinking ever since, feeling a fool even now for repeating history and skirting the decorum of sober knighthood. Desperate, he aimlessly fumbled through the stacks of papers atop the table adjacent him, growling to realize the bottle of sherry he'd sought he had already downed. Stumbling out to the chair he swore aloud as he caught the corner of a wall for support.

Maybe Darmon would take up on his previous offer of a drunken duel, he considered, thinking, _Tyr knows, maybe another sword through the ribcage is precisely what I need right now._

Guiding himself against the wall towards the door, he groped for the door handle and flung it open, peering around the door frame to shout for a chamber maid. When a red-headed and apron-donned woman poked her brow round the edge of an opposite hall, Nevalle muttered, "Bring me a bottle of amontillado sherry."

The woman, surprised, cocked her head to inquire, "Sir Nevalle? Why, I saw you downstairs not a moment ago."

"I haven't left this floor today." He replied, shaking his head. The maid's lips quavered, questioning.

"But, you were just in the throne room, my lord" she said, "You reported to Lord Nasher at daybreak. I saw you there. You spoke of the fate of the ranger Bishop. You were asking for his freedom. You… you defended him. 'Twas strange, after the wound he dealt you, to have spoken of him so favorably."

"I don't think you understand," he responded, a hand kneading the swell of a headache pounding in his skull, "I never reported to Lord Nasher today. Please, bring me a bottle of sherry, and leave Lord Nasher to his business."

"No, no, I cannot, my lord. There is something wrong, I swear it, out of place. You could not be here and there, not at the same time." She insisted, clutching her apron with palms damp in trepidation. Nevalle sighed, collecting his sword belt from the hanger by the door. He stepped from the room, buckling the weight of the weapon at his hips.

"I will see to it. Return to your duties." He ordered. She curtsied.

"T-thank you, my lord." She stammered.

Nevalle staggered down the length of the corridor past the maid, vision blurred in the slightest. The one day he'd taken voluntary leave from his duties, and still he ultimately served his city, tromping to the throne room half-dazed from wine and fatigue. Unarmored, in all but a linen shirt and breeches, not even boots, Nevalle stumbled to the first series of rooms towards Nasher's throne. Two guards halted him, crossing their halberds in an X to block his path.

"A doppelganger," one guard hissed, "Sir Nevalle had already reported to Lord Nasher! Who are you to try and enter Neverwinter's court?"

"Caution, I would urge," the other noted, "Demons have been flooding our forests. This could be one, a shape shifter."

Nevalle groaned, irritably snapping, "If there is a doppelganger in our castle, it is the one who stands beside Lord Nasher now, and you _fools_ let him in. You require proof of my identity? My mother hails from Waterdeep and my father died when I was fifteen years of age. My steed is a palomino stallion, some seventeen hands in height. I have a recent scar between my two lowest ribs on my right side. Now allow me passage or I will have you both tried for insubordination to your superior."

The guards shuffled swiftly to the sides of the gateway, withdrawing their weapons. Nevalle stormed in, drawing the sword at his belt as he entered the throne room. Standing at Lord Nasher's side was a replica of Nevalle, the exact same chiseled features and tunic of the Nine, his great sword's hilt comprised of dual demon's wings centered with a circular emerald that gazed up from behind the man's back. Nevalle extended the point of his blade at him, Nasher holding a hand in pause to the blue-garbed knight at his side, saying to the unarmored Nevalle before him, "Who are you to approach my throne as an imposter of my captain?"

"I _am_ you captain, Lord Nasher." He exclaimed, wagging his sword, frustrated, "This impersonator dares to free the very man who drove a blade through my chest."

Nasher glanced from the Nevalle at his side to the Nevalle standing at the base of his throne, eyes discriminating. He finally said to Nevalle, "Cut the tunic from this knight, and see if he is indeed the illusion of the two of you."

"It is sacrilege to desecrate the symbol of the eye of Neverwinter." Nevalle replied guardedly. Yet Nasher persisted, motioning to the knight at his side. Cautiously scaling the steps towards the throne, the doppelganger retreated, trembling fingers encircling the hilt of the blade at his back. Nevalle approached slowly, then suddenly dipped and caught the hem of the blue tunic. The fabric dispelled, fading into an azure smoke that reformed into a robe of a similar color. Still lunging towards his target, Nevalle, overwhelmed at the illusion, drove the blade further as the man backed into the wall. Nevalle's weapon crashed through the center of the doppelganger accidentally, impaling the man on the wall as the two collided into the stone behind Nasher's throne. The whole of Nevalle's duplicate dematerialized into a fog, the great sword twisting and re-hardening into the shape of a wooden staff, the emerald at the hilt shrinking into a sphere that embedded itself at the crest of the new weapon. The body itself reassembled from the ethereal smoke, the blonde hair lengthening into black coils hanging limp about elven ears. Nevalle pulled his sword from the man, sinking to his knees.

"Sand?" He called, crawling to the fallen wizard, "Sand?"

Nasher's voice echoed the chamber, his guards trotting off to the noise of plate mail clapping to the rhythm of their guards' accelerated pace. Nasher stood over the elf, eyes closed at the gruesome sight. Sand choked on blood rising in his throat, a crater in his abdomen that opened through his back. Nevalle cupped the wound with his hands, promising, "I will bring you a healer. Wait here for me; hold on a few moments longer."

"_No_," he hissed as he struggled to sit up. Nevalle lifted him under the arms to seat his back against a wall, hands left on his shoulders in support. Sand coughed, a fresh stream of blood trailing down his chin as he murmured between wheezes, "There is no time. Know….know Adelaide did this. She needed me to bargain for Bishop's freedom, to bribe him to kill Axarthys."

"But Axarthys is safely on her way to Ruathym." Nevalle replied anxiously. Sand shook his head, bowing on one shoulder with a long moan of pain.

"She sent Bishop to destroy the mast… it sunk the ship. Adelaide, she intercepted the words from scouts who saw the wreckage wash ashore. They, they saw Axarthys… the south, they found her south, towards Waterdeep. The scouts feared recapturing her and instead ride now back to the city. Adelaide will kill her, the demon." Sand coughed. Nevalle trembled, drawing in a hasty and agonized breath.

He twisted his face to glance over his shoulder, "Lord Nasher, I ask for permission to ride south and recover Axarthys."

"No. You are to remain here and investigate these claims against Adelaide." Nasher responded. Nevalle's teeth clamped onto the inside of his lip, eyes clenched momentarily as he gathered himself to his feet.

"I have served you unquestionably, my lord, since the hour I became a squire. Not once have I doubted your orders, nor questioned your tactics, or hesitated in the face of the greatest enemies that would threaten Neverwinter. I've honored my pledge as a knight. I stood at Crossroad Keep in the direst hour, led Neverwinter through the gates of that fortress against the King of Shadows' allies. As a servant to a master, I would humbly ask for once, in all my years of absolute servitude, you would acquiesce in your humility to my request," Nevalle implored.

Nasher's chin rose, tilted in a subtle motion indicating his authority. His eyes fixed on Nevalle's as the Royal Guard moved through, the cleric Camryn Nyx at their forefront. Her serene, alto voice filled the stale, nervous air like the warmth of merlot's rich aroma, subduing Nasher's usual roar to a softened sigh, "What you suggest, Nevalle, is that the protection of a demon is priority over the justice of one of your peers, a knight of the Nine."

"And so we are to put a price to justice?" Nevalle countered, shoulders tightening with head bowed as the acuteness of his words' disobedience became evident to him. Chastised silently, he continued, "Three years ago I swore to deliver justice to Axarthys Saintrowe, to defend her with my life until Tyr judged her. I cannot forget that oath, not now."

"You would have me honor your request after you abandoned your duties today?" Nasher mused aloud, glancing to Sand with a frown. Gaze hardened, it returned to Nevalle as Nasher sternly responded, "If you go to the tanar'ri, it will be for yourself, not on the behalf of Neverwinter."

"Then let it be known," Nevalle said over his shoulder as he strode towards the exit, "That for once, I was a selfish man."

-

Adelaide did not believe her luck could have unraveled and decayed any more until she had been summoned to the throne room. Nearly half of the Nine surrounded Lord Nasher, a semi-circle of solemn eyes and frowns. Adelaide eyed them sharply, a hand on the longsword weighing at her belt.

"Replace your weapon-hand," Nasher demanded, sharper in tone than he had ever addressed her before. The paladin shifted her hand to her waist, still poised.

"I do not understand why I have been summoned to meet with the Nine." She stated.

"You haven't. _We_ have assembled to try you for conspiracy, treason and murder against the states of Ruathym and Neverwinter." Casavir, at Nasher's left hand, announced. Adelaide chuckled, pacing before the throne as she cast her black locks back in a thrust of her head, overtaken with a fit of calculating, cruel laughter. Like ice it heartlessly froze the decency of the souls gathered. Like zinfandel it whittled at their morality like some potent, saccharine poison. As the noise dissipated into the now psychologically glacial chamber, Adelaide drew her sword, twirling it wrathfully in her palm. Nasher's grim face had contorted into the very expression of rage.

"How appropriate that _you_ speak those words, Casavir. Do you recall what was planned for the Docks? Do you remember fleeing to Old Owl Well? Twice a traitor to Neverwinter, and you would accuse _me_ of conspiracy, of treason? As I know it, did not you conspire _with_ me one of your two betrayals, to organize the incident at the Docks?" Adelaide asked. Casavir closed his eyes, conviction etched in the lines of his face.

"I have made my guilt known," Casavir said, "This trial is _yours_, Adelaide, not mine."

"Our agent Sand died here today as a result of the idiocy of your vendetta," Nasher boomed heatedly, "The justice Neverwinter would have given Axarthys Saintrowe has been made a display of brutality no better than that of Luskan. I would have expected such mindless cruelty from thieves and beggars, not one of my own bodyguards. Had Casavir and Sand not both attested and admitted to their involvements I would not have suspected you. I am ashamed to have ridden beside you in battle, Adelaide Cryhart, and want nothing more than to give you the death you brought to the many that died aboard the vessel bound to Ruathym. Tyr is merciful to assure Axarthys did not die with them. Had the tanar'ri died and in so doing caused sudden war, I would have you buried alive in the Tomb of the Betrayers. You are blessed that she lives."

"How could you wish it that a murderer would live?" Adelaide hissed, "How is it a blessing, because it saves us war? If war is the cost of the preservation of justice then I will pay it. I will not sacrifice my morality in cowardice."

Casavir replied, "There are times, Adelaide, when our ethics must take second place to survival. All the knights standing before you now believe in the ideals you speak, but these priniciples, they are idealistic, and regrettably not realistic. Not all Neverwintans share your courage and desire peace over war if that is what slacking on their morals will guarantee them."

"As if you, who fled to Old Owl Well over the controversy of a woman and hid there for the better part of a year, would know _anything_ of courage. Speak not to me of valor, Casavir." Adelaide rebuked, "Lord Nasher, this has precious little to do with my case. I will not stand to be judged without the whole of the Nine present. Where is Darmon, and most importantly, where is Nevalle? Am I to be tried without my captain present?"

"He is on business exterior to Neverwinter's orders. His return is not mine to judge." Nasher bitterly said, "Likewise it is not of your concern. You ultimately answer to me, not Nevalle."

"He went to rescue the tanar'ri, didn't he?" Adelaide snapped.

"His leave is his own." Nasher sternly persisted.

"On the contrary, _my lord_, I believe _any_ matter involving Axarthys Saintrowe is a matter of the Nine. What secrets have we to hide?"

"Apparently conspiring against Neverwinter." One of the Nine muttered. Casavir lifted his hand to motion for silence.

"We have no secrets. Yes, it is true that he left to find Axarthys." He announced.

"Then he too has fled Neverwinter for the sake of a woman. We can only assume it was his prolonged exposure to you that caused it." Adelaide responded.

"Fleeing to Old Owl Well was imprudent of me. Clearly you mistake Nevalle's mercy for foolishness." Casavir replied. Adelaide smiled piercingly.

"Mercy," she lowly snarled, "Is what Nevalle shall scream for when Axarthys has disposed of him in the Abyss, weary of her human pet. Because demons, Casavir, demons do not reciprocate samaritan benevolence. Yet fear not, Casavir, when Nevalle lies dead at demon claws, I think you will make a fair Captain of the Nine."

"This does not concern your case in the least, Adelaide," Nasher thundered, "Nevalle's character is not the one under question. You have his whereabouts, as well as Casavir's honesty. Be thankful he has been considerate of you after your traitorousness. On the morrow, you _will _stand in this court to face Tyr. Leave, Adelaide, and dare not show your treasonous face in my city. You _will_ remain in this castle."

"Most certainly, _my liege_," she cooed, bowing shallowly with longsword replaced in its sheath, "I take my leave."

Adelaide veered left from the throne, passing the spiral staircase to her own chambers in favor of descending into the narrowest, darkest, dampest hollows of the dungeon hallways. Sauntering down the steps and deliberately ramming her shoulders into the departing guards to slide a hand into their belt hooks to steal their key rings as they left to exchange shifts, she trudged to Bishop's cell, her fingers noisily and rapidly chiming on the bars as her armored hands rapped on the iron. She leaned into the metal, talons frozen predatorily on the bars.

"Nevalle rides from the city gates to rescue Axarthys as I speak. You will ride ahead of Nevalle and intercept his path. You _will_ reach Axarthys before he does or your life will be extinguished on the cold steel of my blade, impaled through your worthless heart. You will _kill_ her as _clearly_ you failed to do so before, and slaughter anyone who sees you do so, Nevalle included." She hissed with eyes widened in anger as she rattled a cell key before him, throwing it to the stone at his feet within the cell, "The guard shifts now. You are to be off immediately, south of Neverwinter, taking my saddled steed from the stables. Go or your life is forfeit."

Somehow threats were useless with the proposal of bloodlust, for it was the imagined taste of Axarthys's blood on Bishop's lips as she died in his arms that empowered him to hobble to his feet, unlocking the cell to step out and into Adelaide, breathing in her ear as his hand quested the flesh at her side to draw her longsword from her belt, "I think I'll be needing this."

-

A thunder of hooves, a flurry of heartbeats, a hiss of falling rain. Nevalle's sight blurred with the onslaught of wind, tears forming in his eyes that surely derived from sorrow as well. He'd galloped endlessly from Neverwinter atop his cream steed, the stallion's golden coat matted with sand and sullied with dirt. The horse thrust his magnificent head into the air, his breath a puff of fog on the cool, autumnal breeze that lingered outside Neverwinter's perpetual summer. Grey in overcast ran the sky, night darkening the cloud cover and shedding shimmers of stars over the canvas of the earth's ceiling.

Alongside him, the ocean coursed endlessly, a body incomprehensible in its vastness. Overwhelmed by its size, Nevalle dug the heels of his boots in the cylinder of the horse's sides, demanding the full stride of the animal as if to outrun the tide itself. Thrashing in his saddle as the stallion's hooves quickened pace, his sword walloping against his spine as its scabbard pounded him in rhythm with the horse's gait, his cloak fluttering vainly in escape from his shoulders, Nevalle surveyed the white sands ahead. Their blankness terrified him.

Then, something compelled him to halt his steed and dismount, and pursuing the suggestion of his instinct, he reigned the stallion as the muted applause of hooves clapping on the sand ended in a shuffle of legs and a thump on the beach as Nevalle lowered himself from the saddle to the ground. The tide had risen; waves brushed against his boots, the leather caressed by the coarseness of the salty water. The echo of the ocean heightened the awareness of his senses, afforded him a peace that calmed the tension in his nerves. He listened to the hiss of trees blown in the wind, savored the downpour of rain as it cooled the heat of his brow. Eyes focused past tears, ears heard beyond their ringing. There was movement in the dunes, he realized. The tall grasses had shuffled, wet sand crumpling. Departing his horse's side, Nevalle walked towards the sand dunes, a hand across his waist as to pose over his sword belt. Kneeling into the pliable earth he swept aside a patch of tall grass.

Slumped in a defeated mound of diaphanous cream chiffon, soaked, disheveled white locks of hair tangled about two pink horns. The mass shivered uncontrollably, eyes clenched as the rain pounded on their lids. Lips once healthy in their color were blue, skin pale in its grey. Axarthys surrendered amidst the sea grass, a discarded heap of less than a hundred pounds of demonic flesh. Afraid to touch her, as if fearful of realizing the scene was existent, Nevalle endeavored to rest his fingers atop her frigid, bluish ones. The tanar'ri's eyes parted, narrow with tears.

"Axarthys," he said, steadying the quiver in his voice at seeing her so pitiable. He untied his cloak to bring over her fragile shoulders, sitting her upright against one of his knees to tie it closed. His line of sight fell from where her skin disappeared beneath the translucent fabric of her gown, drenched as to cling to her bare breasts beneath. Polite enough not to allow his gaze to linger there, his stare descended. There was red leather tethered at her side, a blue ribbon secured around one wrist. That sight brought him the most joy.

Lifting the hood of his cloak over her wet tresses, he faced the realization that the diminutive, frail Axarthys would die of hypothermia in a matter of hours if he was unable to reach Neverwinter in time. Raining and cold as it was, the weather worsened her chances of survival. He felt his heart race and he suppressed his emotions. Knighthood dictated so. Cupping her cheeks he looked directly to her, calmly instructing, "I must take you to Neverwinter. I will ride fast, so you must remain conscious. If you feel you are falling asleep, don't. Keep your eyes open. Do you understand?"

"No." She choked. Her speech was slowed, hesitant. The fear in her eyes exacerbated pity of the sight. Shivering intensified, her hands groping for his arm yet unable to grasp it. She quavered, "I am… I know not. I am cold. Will I die?"

Collecting her into his arms he supported her in his lap, dipping her neck downwards to examine her face. Her mouth was completely blue, her grey skin almost white. Her pink facial tattoos contrasted the freshly frozen palette of her countenance. Leaning closer to her, his warm breath on her cheek, he embraced her hand. She no longer fumbled for his, eyes closed as she shook in ceaseless fits of shivering. Death became her, to his fright. Drawing the hood closer to her brow he dared to stroke her icy nose with his, replying to her, "I won't _let_ you die."

He lifted her face towards his, considering how ignoble it would be to kiss her then. Not when she could not consent to it, he thought, not when she was barely conscious. Victimizing her seemed a mortal sin. Yet her lips, blue and arctic, if he could combat their chill. As not to distress the dying flesh, he allowed their kiss to be a mere meeting of lips, prolonged as he sapped some of the cold from her. Her body in his arms momentarily paused in its trembling, her hand's rigid and useless muscles still seeking to embrace him in return.

When he at last lifted his visage from hers, he stood with her blue-draped branch of a body cradled in his arms. He carried her to his horse, mounting the palomino with Axarthys's forcibly heaving chest pressed into his torso, her nose buried into the tunic at his shoulder. Heels pressed deep into the stirrups Nevalle signaled his steed, cantering the galloping north, bearing Axarthys tenderly in his embrace.

As his form became a specter on the autumn grey of the horizon, a shadow emerged from the forests facing the oceans, materializing atop an ebony charger. The ranger halted the horse on the sand of the beach, ignorant of the falling rain. He gritted his teeth, cursing himself. He'd watched Axarthys wither with hypothermia, wallowing on the beach and stumbling to cower in the dune's grasses. She could never have made it to the supposed safety of the woods in her state; had she, the ranger was sure he'd killed her, likely after he'd made love to her, consented or not, not necessarily to slake his sexual thirst but to prolong and aggravate her misery. He would let her waste away on the dunes before gathering her corpse, pleased to have watched Axarthys suffer in the most pathetic moments of her earthly existence. Now liberated and outside Neverwinter's gates, he wouldn't return the body to Adelaide, instead keeping it as a token of his cruelty and conquest of Axarthys Saintrowe, carting the cadaver to whatever city he fled to.

Except the damn knight decided to play hero, the ranger mused. He would have intercepted Nevalle's rescue of the distressed damsel, save the knight was clearly in a better condition than he. Injured as still his leg was, being forcibly dismounted from his horse the ranger would have been rendered completely crippled. The ranger's own life was worth much more than Axarthys's, however much he craved it. He uttered aloud to the winds, "Let the demon be the price of my freedom."

"A high price to pay, Bishop." He heard the wind hiss past. Thinning his gaze in a glower the ranger looked about. Nothing. The voice continued, "Demogorgon is willing to allow his demons to siege a human city for her. She is valuable, worth more than Neverwinter's coffers in gold."

"Ah, so the Prince of Demons himself wants a piece of her. I can't blame him. She's as beautiful as a succubus and as cultured as a scholar. She makes for a wonderful fuck." The ranger scoffed, though inside, he felt an intense reverberation of jealousy in his heart for Nevalle. To see the knight's lips on _his_ Axarthys infuriated him. Axarthys had been Bishop's. He despised seeing her happy with anyone else, and _genuinely _happy, not simply bound to another by duty as she was to him. Shaking the fury off his thoughts he added, "And what evil force am I speaking to now? A tanar'ri? One of the Saintrowes?"

"Your _patron,_ ranger," the wind hissed, "The Purging Duke of the Abyss. I came to charge you with a task."

"You caught me at a dreadful time to demand chores." Bishop said.

"On the contrary, I reached you at the most ideal opportunity. Seeing as the Lamb is likely not guiding you to my seat in the Abyss, you'll need to reach me somehow. I offer you direct passage to my throne at the chance to become my right hand should you bring her to me." The voice called.

"And what do _you_ want with her?"

"Demogorgon banks on the success of the Saintrowe campaign to bring him Axarthys. However, if during this siege _you _can capture her and through a hell-mouth deliver her to me, I may turn her over to Demogorgon, gaining an instant alliance", The Purging Duke explained, "Ah, and her unhappiness as the Prince of Demon's consort, seeing the new human she's acquired, should please you as well."

Bishop smiled.

"Well, then in that case, you have a deal."

-

The halls of the Saintrowe estate had echoed with utter stillness in the recent days, its demonic denizens withdrawn into the spirals of its construction, preparing for war. Balimynah reposed solitarily in her throne, the dense cushions arranged at her feet unfilled with the matron's spawn. Her white face was all that contrasted the black of her armor, coursing from her leather-encased toes to the claws of her fingers. Two claymores' hilts were woven into her grasp, their points etching puncture wounds into the marble floor beneath. She breathed in the anxiety of the room, a hushed wind of a noise emitted from her exhale. The drapes about her throne whisked, a sudden chill overtaking the warmth of the room.

Like the zephyr that had caused the drapes' motion, Nonah breezed past the throne, her entry absent in its manifestation. Her celadon chiffon dress swayed in step with her pace as she floated upwards toward Balimynah's throne. Fallen into a deep bow, Nonah said, "You requested my presence, Ladyship?"

"I have another delivery for you to make." She announced. Her hands framed the air before her as if to mime the presence of a box. Dark, fine wood began to form, leaving a fully materialized parcel in the tanar'ri's lap. Nonah retrieved it, harboring it delicately. Said Balimynah, "You commenced the soiree, Lady Bird. You ordered Dantalion throw a ball, and he has. Now you must carry through. War is a dreadful dance, but if we are to waltz, see to it the proper guests have been invited for the event. Lady Lamb's betrothal to our Prince should well be an event worthy of demonic memory, and that may only be so if the pet is no more. Take this to him."

Nonah smiled sweetly, "It shall be a lovely dance when the pet is dead."

-

It had been a long ride.

Nevalle was soaked, Axarthys drenched. The knight had ridden as hard as his horse could gallop, arriving in Neverwinter late into the hours of night. He'd immediately gone to his chambers, ordering blankets and robes from the maids. Axarthys's intense shivering could be heard in the clatter of her teeth, in the flutter of lips opened and closed repeatedly. By the time the linens were delivered to his door, he'd stripped Axarthys to the bareness of her pallid grey flesh and laid her on his bed. He paused a moment to admire the singular beauty of her naked, immaculately hairless form surrendered against his pillows before securing the plush velvet robe around her waist and rolling her into multiple blankets.

She stopped shivering.

Burrowing through the blankets Nevalle retrieved Axarthys's hand. He pulled it to the surface, into the light, to see it fully: the skin had grown bluer, inflamed. She attempted to flex her hand futilely, uttering meaningless strings of words. Her eyes glazed with incoherence, her breathing sparse. The hypothermia had fully overcome her as she pleaded in a gradual slur, "No more blankets… no more. I need, I need a tub."

"Axarthys, I can't," he vied to reason with her, "A hot bath, you'd only end up losing more heat in water. You would die."

She peered up at Nevalle, a minute frown on her face, one not formed in disappointment but in recognition of his words. She understood she was dying. Nevalle shook his head fearsomely, clutching the bundle of her body closer to his to insist, "You're not going to die, Axarthys. You're _not_."

"But I'm so tired," she mewled, "Please let me take a bath. Please, somewhere small. Somewhere I can… I can… somewhere small. Somewhere small. Like a bathtub, where I can sleep."

"Axarthys, _no_." he persisted. Yet he could not deny her. Not if her wish was the last one. Fearful of this, Nevalle laid her back in bed, screaming in a panic out the door of his chambers, "Maids! Maids, I need the tub filled, _now_."

As they scrambled to heave bucketfuls of near-boiling water to the resin bathtub at the center of his room Axarthys observed the women from the bed, a stupor transfixing her eyes in an unblinking stare, filled only with the shallow longing for the bath tub. Nevalle wordlessly begged the maids to work slower; the tub personifying death the water would assure the tanar'ri. He clung to Axarthys who struggled weakly to escape the mass of blankets and robes imprisoning, restraining her. The heat of the water emanated and warmed the air of the room, thickened it with humidity. Scented oils poured into the water turned mere steam to frankincense, a sweet-smelling fog tempting Axarthys, inspiring her restlessness. The maids finished, leaving Nevalle alone with the tanar'ri. He glanced at the bathtub, then Axarthys, and removed his own clothes before peeling away the layers heating her. Carting her to the tub he lowered her into the water. Though she smiled blissfully, Nevalle feared that moving her about would further damage her tissues, or worse, inducing the failure of her heart's organ.

Joining Axarthys he sat behind her, arms firmly locked around her hips. He buried his face into the mass of her snowy hair, smelling saltwater. His mouth strayed along her jaw, planting a kiss at the back of her throat as he murmured, 'I love you' into the cotton of her locks. She nuzzled her cheek against his neck, soaking in his presence more than the water's heat. Fumbling for his hand he bequeathed it to her, allowing it to graze the curvature of her waist, then her torso, chest and neck again, blazing the trail made by her fingers. It saddened Nevalle deeply that Axarthys was oblivious to reality in her hypothermia, content only to be secured in the tight space of the tub, as he caressed the sides of her body, feeling his own tingle with yearning. His hips involuntarily strained against hers as she parted her legs, his thighs cradled inside hers. Instinctually Nevalle reciprocated, repeating the movement as he swung her to lay supine in the water beneath him. Her neck arched over the rim of the bathtub, inviting him to kneel between her legs and replace his head in the cloud of her hair.

Nevalle swallowed the shame rising in him. How could he continue and make love to her? She loitered in a trance, unable to reason, unaware of her surroundings. Amnesia had stolen her memory of him, possibly herself, and he would take advantage of her when she was that vulnerable? Could he lay with his former quarry, his prisoner, a woman not his wife, and enjoy the most intimate moments of pleasure with her still? He could not bear to victimize her, kissing her to moan softly, "This is reckless."

"Then you must decide," Axarthys said, cocked her head against his, "if it is worth the risk."

When they had finished making love, the water was cold.

Nevalle lifted the exhausted Axarthys from the water, spreading out the blankets on his bed to swathe her in them once more. Sleep took her within moments, her cold body huffing scant breaths that battled his dread she would die in the night. Nevalle never fell asleep, opting to stay awake beside her. He prayed faithfully for Axarthys, beseeching Tyr for mercy. Late night became early morn, sapphire midnight became opal dawn. The first, palest lights of sunrise cast shades of pink over Nevalle's bed through the windows, casting warmth over the chill of Axarthys's face. The sun nudged and pried at her eyelids, causing her to part their white lashes. Nevalle sighed in sheer relief as she inhaled a long, weary breath, exhaling, "How pleased I am to see morning."

"How pleased I am to see you alive," Nevalle answered, winding one of her white locks around his finger. He dared not question the miracles of Tyr that surely preserved Axarthys's life, only relishing the present elation at seeing her alive. He stroked her neck- the skin had warmed. His thumb brushed her lips- cool, but not cold. He mumbled into her ear, "Do you remember anything of last night?"

"I may," she uttered, "I suggest you remind me."

A knock at the door ended their second rendezvous. Nevalle smothered her maw in his before rolling off the bed to fetch his robe. There was a package at his door. He hesitated for it, lowering himself to examine the polished mahogany of the box. The pragmatic simplicity of its construction would not have attracted much attention, he mused, concealing whatever rested within. Intrigued, he risked slinging it beneath an arm to carry it into his chambers. Depositing the package onto the plush linens of his bed beside Axarthys, her bare arms and shoulders revealed from beneath the coverlets' guise, watched. He stroked the lid of the box. The tanar'ri nodded to it, saying weakly through bluish lips, "It is yours to open."

He did not bother questioning her; her riddles were his to unravel. Flipping the latch open, Nevalle lifted the box's lid to a radiant flash of colored fabrics. Unpacking the contents, he collected a mass of exorbitant garb: a crimson surcoat of fine velvet, a tunic and feather chapeau of purple silk, a waist cinch of orange with a panel of sailor-striped damask on its sides, a pauldron of adamantine metal, a belt of leather sleek. Axarthys watched with countenance unfazed, a soundless awareness in her pink eyes Nevalle did not understand. He asked, "What is this?"

"An invitation." She whispered.

-

Author's Note:

I sincerely apologize for taking so long to finish and post this chapter. Though I completed 75 of the story within three days of arriving home from vacation, I ran into a handful of writer's blocks with the final Nevalle and Axarthys scenes. Then my teacup Chihuahua Sophie caught a virus as all the while I'm puppy-sitting three dogs in addition to my two. And _still_ trying to get ready to move into college. It's been madness!

So, thank you very much for your patience. This chapter is five pages longer than normal, so consider the extra reading my official apology. Though honestly, any story with Nevalle tubsecks is worth the wait, right? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Enjoy the belated read, dolls-

Valah

PS- I did my research in stages of hypothermia, and found a darkly amusing condition of severely hypothermic people called 'terminal burrowing'. As a last ditch effort to stay alive the person attempts to crawl into small spaces- wardrobes, shelves, closets- like an animal burrowing for shelter. Hence, the bath tub. I chuckle.


	9. Interlude VI: Chapter Seven

Interlude VI: Chapter Seven

War loomed. Dantalion could smell it in the smoke that rose from opened hell mouths into the Abyss as his soldiers leaked forth from the infernal flames onto Abeir-Toril. He could taste it in the metallic shuffle of a thousand swords, savoring the iron in his mouth. He could feel the earth tremble beneath the footsteps of his thirty-six legions. He could hear the flutter of bloodthirsty demons' wings, limbs twitching as if to beg for action, for movement, for war. Dantalion could not yet see- sight, the cementation of the reality of battle, arrived last. Patience awarded him sight. And so Dantalion was patient.

The Fawn stood beside him, her young and yet unscarred body plated in bluish piece mail, her strawberry blonde locks cascading from twin tails of curls at either side of her fragile, pink helixes of horns. She appeared as if a child, and having not battled yet in the Blood Wars, she constituted as one in the demonic realm. Dantalion wished not to bring her; he'd insisted she would slow him down and that she would hinder his capability to command his legions, but Balimynah was persistent in her desire that the youngest of her house follow him. Though the Fawn's presence offered him bitter thoughts, memories of his former consort Nonah Naxcthre and her current relationship with her new, more powerful consort Beelzebub, his alliance with Balimynah was precious to him.

The Fawn. Dantalion laughed cynically at his thoughts of her, amused as she earned her namesake sveltely bounding through the underbrush of the Neverwinter Wood. Her speed and grace would have made her a fine assassin, Dantalion mused, considering such career differed little from the work of an emissary. Both dealt with humans. That was all he needed to know, all he cared to know. Humans were disposable, and demons seized this advantage- for spiritual purposes and possession itself, political purposes, to make a business of them as to amass a fortune as the Saintrowe legion had. Pride swelled in him in knowing Axarthys earned much of the family's wealth. She was gifted.

Dantalion tried to forget the reason why; her curse had been his fault, and his guilt for the action eternal. It had brought him war, war with Neverwinter, and while bloodshed pleased him, her vulnerability in being the prize of battle worried him. He prayed no harm would befall his Lamb; she was no warrior, and long had passed the days when she had honed her whip, Legion, in the Blood Wars.

Dantalion could smell human blood. _Neverwinter_. The quarry was close, his child with it. How would she survive the clash? Concern punctured his dispassion of battle, a mercenary's glacial heart defrosted by the starkness of his daughter's face in his thoughts, singular and striking. He chastised himself for it, but a fatherly devotion to his child rose in him. Dantalion would raise his legions for it, and already had.

-

Silk.

Axarthys stroked the length of her forearms and felt it there. Liquid fabric, she'd long considered silk, because of how it slipped through her fingers and clung to each curve, each detail of her body beneath its surface as if a layer of enamel and not cloth. Fingering the silk, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger against its watery material. She parted her eyelids. She was encircled by the chaste white of blankets and plush pillows atop a colossal bed, surrounded by snowy curtains forming a nurturing canopy about her that embraced the tanar'ri in its textile grasp. She herself was cloaked in pale blue.

Appropriate in its irony. Axarthys thought, given how frozen she felt.

Futilely endeavoring to draw up more covers over her reclining body, her mind asking of her hands what they simply could not accomplish, as if the muscles themselves had died, Axarthys recalled shards of the shattered remembrance of hours adrift at sea, then stumbling for the shore, collapsing there. Fragments of images crossed her thoughts, senseless pictures, noises, emotions. Most memories were of touch, of skin against skin, a sensual creation she believed of her imagination despite its clarity in her recollection. Dismissing this perplexity, Axarthys battled to roll onto her side, ordering her muscles to do at her bidding.

A hand grasped her shoulder, externally halting her movement to gently urge, "You're going to hurt yourself moving about in such a hypothermic state, little Lamb. Lie flat, and I'll have the servants brew you warm sweet-tea. Can you swallow?"

"I-I'm not certain." Axarthys chirped, all the noise she could muster past her lips. Fingers wove between hers, holding her hand tautly. She glimpsed into the mind that belonged to the touch at the tryst of skin and skin, seeing concern.

"So fragile." The voice remarked, its sound resonant, smooth in its texture, tenor in its tone, and spoken with the trappings of educated intonation. The sound was musical to Axarthys, a ballad of victory after the anguish of war, a serenade in its possessor's declaration of chivalrous romance. Axarthys's muscles may have been rendered numb by cold yet her heart thawed immediately at Nevalle's voice, its echo and vibration dispelling the ice of her hopelessness. Basking in the warmth of her joy she rolled her head cross the pillows toward him, closing her eyes.

"'Twas my fragility that seduced you." She remarked. She felt him smile.

"Knights are not seduced," he corrected, "Seduction is criminal. No, knights fall in love."

"Then you admit you love me?" She murmured. To her displeasure he'd released her hand then, severing their psychic bond. He sighed as the knock of his boots on the wooden floors reverberated in her ears. He paused at his desk, the metallic ring of his sword removed from his scabbard sounding. The blade thumped in the leather against the sheath as he lifted it, his breath hesitant and slowed. He jerked the blade in his hand, the whoosh of the weapon swung upwards evident. An insubstantial paranoia permeated the chamber. Though Nevalle's emotions admirably were introvert, Axarthys sensed his apprehension.

"War with your people draws terribly near. My lord spoke to me this morning of it. Nasher warned the city to prepare for battle, but the people know not that abyssal legions are a three days' march away. I must ride out to face these demons before they reach Neverwinter." He announced.

"Suicide." Axarthys uttered.

"I know," he said, "But Nasher has little choice. It was his final resort, aside from one last, dire hope. To invest faith in what he feels he cannot, and what may forever tarnish his reputation in Neverwinter. He… he asked the Nine consult with you in devising a method of attack."

"You ask me to aid you in killing my people." She whispered.

Nevalle replaced his blade, his footsteps returning him to Axarthys's bedside. He sat beside her, outlining her jaw in his fingers to implore, "I know what I ask you to do is the highest treason to your people. In so aiding Neverwinter, you will likely be banished from the Abyss. All I can promise of a new life here is the cruelty of my people and the mortality of my kind. I have so very little to compensate you for your betrayal, except for my love, whatever left of it there is after my love of Neverwinter. If you decline, I will free you in hopes you will return to your people and convince them with your presence the uselessness of war. Would you stand by me, Axarthys?"

She tensed, shivering. She mouthed tentatively, "You defended me unquestioningly and saved my life twice. But to betray my kind, to think I would never see my mother, my sisters and my home again, such a painful price that is," she began to cry. Thousands of years she had existed as part of the Abyss, as one of its children. Memories of Balimynah tutoring her on the etiquette of mortal court in the plush extravagance of her throne room and of her mother Nonah, the Bird, presenting her with the whip Legion, stung like wasps. Axarthys shook her head, "I love my family so very much. I cannot betray them."

He caressed the bridge of his nose against hers and kissed the bone of her cheek, "I can't convince you against your will and I will not try. I honor your sovereignty."

Sovereignty. The word ignited potent sentiment in her, expressed in a tremble of her bluish lips. Too long had she been a prisoner to know that word. Nevalle offered her sweet freedom, to return to the world months ago she had been extracted from. All the happiness she had known before arriving in Neverwinter would be hers, infringed upon by no hunter, by no state, by no people. Her estate grounds once more she would meander, transversing her vineyards with the scent of palomino grapes flourishing on their vines. The rainy days between she'd wile away exploring the vast reaches of Waterdeep's maze of alleys and avenues. Axarthys breathed in long, fully, filling her weary lungs with soothing air. She exhaled, "I chose freedom."

"Know I cannot follow you down that path." He responded quietly, only suggesting his mourning. Axarthys nodded, pressing her lips into a hard line to suppress fresh tears.

"I will be happy." She finally said, opening her eyes in conclusiveness, the awareness of her chosen fate. Nevalle's hands fell from her face and the bed creaked as stood from her side, his footsteps pacing before the window at the other side of the room. Axarthys sensed the intense sorrow from his thoughts before he broke their physical touch. He dared not speak to his misery at her second departure from him. Her exile to Ruathym had been a worse wound than ever Bishop's blade could have inflicted upon him. Yet his voice was stoic, his posture poised and his features taciturn as knighthood dictated.

He said simply before leaving her to the emptiness of the room, tears threatening to devour the flimsy shell of his polite reticence, "Know then that I will miss you, my lady."

-

Aldanon rarely heeded the knocks on his door. Young nobles, he'd convinced himself, waited on the opposite side of the wall prepared to lay siege to his home, hungry for his prime property. No, Aldanon would not allow that foolery. He would lock his lips as the voices requested his response from outside, release some toxins into his brewing potions so the ominous, audible hissing and cackling of the substance unnerved the passerby. The war with the King of Shadows had been enough nonsense. He hardly desired to attract more.

Yet this time, the knocking was uniquely feeble. It sounded as if made from the tiny fist of a young serving wench, more likely a beggar girl. Aldanon felt a heady magic in the air that came with it, a pleasantly smoky scent emanating from the entry way. He thought it the sulfurous odor of summoned demons, yet it was far too delicate. Intrigued, Aldanon crawled from his seat and strolled down the hall calling, "What do you want?"

"To regain lost abyssal power." The cryptic response was. Interested, he flung the door open. He saw a diminutive woman standing at his doorstep dressed in white. She nodded and curtsied in greeting, waiting for his formal invitation of entry before she lifted her cloak to step beyond the threshold. When the door closed she removed her hood, her pink demon horns apparent. She introduced herself, her flesh pale with cold and voice whittled to wheezing, "Pardon my hesitance to state my name outdoors. You may imagine the response of your kind when a tanar'ri wanders freely your city's streets. I am Axarthys Saintrowe, Lady of the Lamb."

"So you aren't going to light me aflame or summon mariliths to consume my human soul?" He asked, not pausing for her reply to interject, "Wonderful! I have never spoken to a demon without being singed, bitten, beaten, flogged, jabbed or splayed. This will be _most _enlightening! Usually I cannot carry a _semblance_ of a conversation without your kind unless you are restrained in a most complex summoning circle, of which-"

"- I require now, and have been told you are the finest crafter of." Axarthys expertly interceded. Aldanon rubbed his palms together excitedly.

"Yes, yes of course! Come in, come in. This is quite thrilling. A tanar'ri in my household, how exhilarating! Whatever you need, demoness, by all means ask. A summoning circle is a most reasonable request." He began to march off with Axarthys in tow. Collecting a handful of colored chalks from his desk the wizard inquired, "Naturally, I will need to know what use you have of this circle, to draw it to your needs."

"I wish to draw upon the Abyss's power to regenerate my full demonic form on the mortal plane." She answered with difficulty, heaving breaths. Aldanon nodded.

"Ah, interesting indeed," he remarked, "The process will further tax your presumably weakened body. So for what purpose would you seek to regain your wings and tail in such a deplorable state?

She stated, "War."

-

Knighthood did not condone sorrow, and love it ignored. Emotions belonged to the distressed noblewomen knights rescued, or to the crowds that cheered as the ever-reserved knights journeyed home victorious from war. Emotion defined them. Little separated the barbarian from the knight on the battle field, for both were talented warriors. Save the knight's dispassion allowed for his level-headedness in combat. Emotional emptiness bought the knight focus the barbarian lacked, making the knight the superior combatant.

Nevalle was aware of this, and felt damned when unmanageable tears welled in his eyes over the thought that Axarthys would forever abandon him. He paced the Temple of Tyr brooding over her upcoming second departure- angry with the tanar'ri for leaving him once more after all he'd done in her name, saddened with the prospect of having to let her go a second time, as if taking not one but two swords to the chest. The pain was _that_ piercing.

He implored Tyr for a reprieve of his feelings, asking to be detached from the demon so as to concentrate on the battle ahead. Instead his attempts at considering battle strategies before the temple's altar were fogged by Axarthys. Nevalle had known too many superficial women, typically noble daughters- all of them shallow, all of them puppets of their royal courts. They possessed the exterior grace a landed knight as Nevalle required in a woman, but they lacked substance. Axarthys lacked nothing. She was adept in the arena of the social court and equally as capable reasoning with her superiors in a court of law. She could signal her thoughts with the complex trickery of a fan or display her opinions in an intricately stated speech in the halls of a king. She was exalted by her people, a noble of her world, and though she was a demon her normality, her substance, was genuine. And above all, of more worth than her courtly talent and social status, he loved her fiercely.

She was perfect, and he wept that he'd lost her.

"Nevalle?"

Her voice. His breath caught in his throat, choking him.

Axarthys was standing at the entry, the halo of the white fur of her cloak glowing in the blurred vision of his weeping eyes. As the way they'd met she was entirely swathed in snowy whites. Except where once she glided, now she stumbled. She halted halfway down the central aisle, grappling for one of the pews in support. Two pink, leathery wings unfurled diffidently, stretching across her back. Her spaded tail swayed behind her as she continued forward, declaring in a frightening rasp, "Love I swore to Bishop, yet he caged me as a bird for four years' servitude. Love I swore to my family, yet they contained me in Blood War combat for three years' eternity. Love I swore to you, and after many months your prisoner, you offer me freedom. Yet it is not because I am disposable that you would liberate me, no- I am valued, beloved _so_ _much_ that if my love's unhappiness allows me to be happy in my freedom, he would pay it.

"And yet this is no singular act of compassion. When I was his prisoner, he respected me. When his people tortured me, he healed my wounds. When my enemy cut open the flesh of my hand, he defended me until he was struck down, and one week he lay in pain for me. When I was left to freeze, he offered me the warmth of his chambers," she spoke, halting beside him to whisper, "Nevalle, you are an extraordinary man."

Besieged by her words, by the frightening beauty that was Axarthys's fully realized demonic form, Nevalle could hardly command his legs to dash to her, though her frailty terrified his limbs into action. He sprinted to her, catching the spade of her forked tail in his palm to rub its leather as he lifted her into his arms. He shook his head, carrying her to a seat admonishing, "There is nothing extraordinary about fulfilling my duties, my lady. You risk your health coming here to tell me these things."

"You _must_ know this; very few noblemen are noble men. _This_, my dearest, beloved knight, is why you are so extraordinary," Axarthys smiled lovingly, reaching into one of her gloves to draw forth the blue silk ribbon he'd wrapped her orchids in. She beckoned for him to kneel, and instantly his armored knee clanked on the floor. She tied the ribbon around the hilt of his great sword, kissing his brow from her seat to utter, "Take this token of my subservience to you into the coming battle. You have earned my submission as well as my love."

"You will not return to the Abyss?" He asked, the rising hope inside his throat drying whatever tears for Axarthys Saintrowe's fate remained.

She replied, "There is no future there for me that I have not already known. Power, war, politics. The ignorance of a people blinded by the Blood Wars. But you, you represent a world of chivalry, of honor, of law that I never knew existed. In place of chaos, you would offer me peace; in lieu of hatred, you would offer me love."

"A love not recognized in full," he frowned, "For I must defend Neverwinter before love, reducing you to second priority. I have only half a heart to give. You instead could have _complete_ abyssal power."

"Better to serve you than reign in hell." Axarthys assured.

"Do not make this choice for my betterment." He advised. Still she persisted, shaking her head tenderly as he rejoined her on the pew, holding her to prevent her collapse. Her labored breathing worried him though her words inspired him. She reposed both hands flat on his chest over the eye of Neverwinter emblazoned across his heart.

"I have been an emissary for the better part of eight thousand years. I have known millions of mortals and demons both, and notwithstanding the fleeting infatuations akin to my fondness for Bishop, I've not once felt my limbs tingle and my spirit soar as they have in your presence. I am not quick to love; I have not loved as I do you ever, not once in all my millennia. The demon of my mind tells me it is foolish to betray my people for this love after countless eons of servitude, yet the woman of my heart tells me half a _human_ heart is more than enough for a demoness. Know I have not once heeded my heart. If it is a mistake to do so, then at least I will have made it consciously. I stand by you, and that is final." She smiled, glancing up towards him for his response.

He stumbled on words, tried to clamor for them and gather his thoughts. Instead he turned his face over his shoulder, saying, "I am at a loss."

"Overwhelmed?" She suggested gently. He breathed in deeply.

"I came here to pray Tyr would help me focus on battle. I begged and pleaded I could allow your memory to pass peacefully in my mind. I agonized over the possibility that you would leave me a second time. I imagined myself an unmarried Captain of the Guard for the remainder of my days. To be loved, and to love in return, that kind of happiness I never planned for, no matter how much I wished for it and prayed for your change of heart." He harbored her lightly in his arms, eyes meeting her gaze as he laughed though the veil of remaining tears, "Honestly, Axarthys, you just tromped through the doors with wings and a _tail _and you expect me to be able to grasp your definitive declaration of love?"

"And even more, my declaration of love accompanies war with the Abyss. This is too much for your mortal comprehension, I am sure. There are many troubles and changes about, my treasured knight, but if we are to overcome them, I recommend you enforce your priorities. Let us conquer battle before the love that wrought it." She counseled, propping herself up onto his lap to lock her knees at either side of his torso. Slanting in towards him, his mouth at her neck, she murmured in his ear, "For if you are the man I have known, your duty is first to Neverwinter before it is to me. Let us see to it that you remain the knight I love."

-

Camryn Nyx gazed, hypnotized, into the black basin of a scrying bowl. The aqueous substance acted as a mirror, reflecting the woman's chestnut locks and stony eyes. The thin lengths of her lips parted to the hiss of an incantation, the liquid in the bowl rippling. When the movement subsided, ashen wings appeared in the pool's mirror just behind her shoulder. She intoned, "It is I, your servant. War draws. Have you new orders, my lord?"

"Possibly. What of Bishop?" a voice asked.

"Alvarez bribed him, promising a seat at his side should he return Axarthys Saintrowe to him. Now the ranger prepares for battle in the Abyss. I know not what his course of action will be precisely- the magic I imprinted upon his wound may only see so much. Thus so, my visions are limited," she reported, "But if you would hear my _own_ thoughts, I would gladly offer them, my lord."

"By all means."

"Though the ranger is empowered no doubt by Alvarez, he cannot match the full fighting force of Neverwinter. Dantalion won't tolerate Bishop seizing Axarthys- Dantalion was only allowed to declare war if he promised to bring Axarthys to Demogorgon. Both the city and the Abyss are against the ranger. I imagine he will attempt to lure Axarthys into the Abyss through one of the hell mouths opening in the north, singling her out and bringing her directly to Alvarez." Camryn explained. The voice in the bowl gave a considerate sigh.

"Intuitive, my servant. How were you able to obtain so much information on Dantalion's motivations?"

"To my displeasure, from another demon." Camryn's nose wrinkled, "It would have pleased my warrior's heart to slay the fiend where it stood, but a greater good has been accomplished. While I loathe admitting it, my lord, this demon may turn out a fine agent."

"We shall see after this battle is complete," the voice answered, pausing to think a moment before ordering, "Accompany the emissary to Bishop's location in the Abyss. It will draw her away from the battle, and should she ultimately be seized, better by the ranger than thirty-six legions of demons. We cannot allow Dantalion any victory. After you have slain Bishop or Axarthys is taken by him, transport yourself and any of your companions to my throne. If the battle continues, we will gather the aasimon and crush these demons. I will withhold Axarthys Saintrowe until she is judged properly. Until that time, though, you must defend the tanar'ri Axarthys Saintrowe with your life."

Camryn growled, cringing, "That shall be difficult, my lord. I can barely stand her demonic stench."

He responded, "Then you may never rise against the thirty-six legions of Dantalion. Stand tall- you do so in my name. Now go, and see yourself to the war council."

-

Axarthys gazed about the panorama of the war council, the massive round table of the room affording ample space between each attendant. Alienated from the support of Nevalle, beside her seat yet over a yard away, she was singled out. The eyes of the Nine encircled her, predatory, doubt laced with hesitation and woven with spite staring her down. Nasher, directly across from her, initiated the meeting with the prompt, "Nevalle, describe this tanar'ri's situation to the council."

He stood, back straightened and reserve strict with courtly poise, detached from the benevolent knight Axarthys cherished yet nevertheless admired. He explained, "As you wish, my lord. Axarthys was issued an ultimatum shortly after I returned her to Neverwinter's control following rescue from the shipwreck of her exile vessel. Honoring it, she is upheld by our laws to strategize war against her people."

"Have you a plan established, tanar'ri?" Nasher asked. The Nine's eyes narrowed, fixed upon her. Lips quivering, Axarthys lifted herself from her seat, expanding her wings to force her upwards. Wooden chair legs creaked as they slid across the stone floor. Axarthys nimbly, though gradually, scaled the table, kneeling before the map of Neverwinter. She examined it and then traced the outer walls of Neverwinter on the drawing with her finger. Her eyes thinned, scrutinizing. She closed them, imagined the assembled legions of Balimynah's army. She wished to picture a similar force outside Neverwinter. War had not been her niche as she was an emissary, and conjuring the images in her mind was problematic. Axarthys swallowed her nervousness; should her plans fail, should they falter in the slightest, her life would be forfeit. The Abyss would not allow a traitor to live. Given, death itself did not frighten her. She was selfish, wished death then in her hypothermia, its lingering cold clinging to the infirmity of her form. But Nevalle wished her to live. For him, she would. She _had_ to.

Carefully she reported in no louder than an utterance, "Most archdemons command thirty to forty legions. Had I the name of the archdemon heading this operation, capable I would be of devising a sounder plot. For now, all I may offer is less specific advice. Would still you hear it?"

Nevalle laid a hand on her back, having come to her from his seat. The suddenness of the action startled her, though its warmth she welcomed. He asked her gently, "If we had the name of the archdemon, how much more would you be able to help us? Do you know?"

"Should the demon be one I am dear to, my advice may be thrice, I would daresay, even _tenfold_ as-" Axarthys shivered, words cut short with pain. The sharpness of it transcended the ache of hypothermia, seizing her capacity of reason. Doubling over she sunk from the table, falling back into Nevalle's arms. His touch no longer felt warm but as if red-hot brands, searing their imprints on her bare skin. She gasped as he deposited her into her seat, the wood of the chair agonizingly stiff and unforgiving against the swollenness of her spine. Each vertebrae puffed pinkish with misery. Her breathing became difficult. Her body was under spiritual siege, too weak to oppose the strong divine force that neared. She sought to summon a voice from her throat to inform Nevalle. All that came from her mouth was a hiss.

Nevalle said, unaware of the severity of her condition, "She is sickly still. I ask you be patient, else we'll have no information at all. My lord Nasher, is there any way to retrieve the identity of the archdemon leading the abyssal forces?"

"I am not sure. Our scouts have done well to stay far from these tanar'ri." He responded.

Axarthys battled with frustration, furious Nevalle and Nasher both ignored her, angered they could not understand her misery. Voice rendered useless Axarthys wailed tearfully, fingers tensing up in positions her skeleton did not seem to permit. Her back arched over the arm rest of her seat. A flutter of feathered wings, the nearing footsteps of a divine force Axarthys feared deeply. Anticipation, terror grew as the steps drew near. A knock at the door. When it opened Axarthys smelled holiness; her eyes burned with parchedness from it.

"My lord Nasher," the entity greeted, "You must excuse my brusque entry. Had it not been necessary, I would have abstained from intruding upon your council."

"Speak your peace."

"You know me as the healer Camryn Nyx. I am an agent of Tyr, and healed the ranger Bishop. My liege instructed I imprint him with tracking magic as I cured his leg, afraid the ranger would escape after the paladin Adelaide Cryhart's order to slay the demon Axarthys Saintrowe" She explicated.

"Go on." Nasher goaded.

"Bishop _did _flee, consorting with the demon lord Alvarez. Apparently, from what visions I received of their pact, the attack is led on Neverwinter to capture the demon Axarthys Saintrowe for Demogorgon, so she may become his consort." She explained. Nevalle clamped a hand on Axarthys's writhing shoulder.

"He will not have her," he sternly responded, "And know I have little confidence in the words of a cleric who only now reveals her supposed aid to our city."

"Good. I am glad you doubt me as demonstration of your caution, though disappointed in your concern for the demon. Know, servant of Tyr, that I am no cleric. I am safe to admit so in the company of loyal Tyrran worshippers that I am one of Tyr's warrior aasimon. I am the planetar Sedna Belladonna." She said. Some of the Nine fell into a bow upon the floor. Casavir lowered the mace at his side, head bowed.

"We are honored to have your audience." He said. The planetar smiled.

"Stand tall, paladin. Your service would have you do so as my equal in your devotion to our god." She replied, walking about the table to offer a hand to all who had knelt before her. When she had reached Nevalle, standing over the crumpled Axarthys, she clamped her jaw, warning softly the knight, "Any deva would pity this monstrous fiend. I am no deva. Remember that while I hold your unfailing service to Tyr dear, I will not be so compassionate of your abomination. It will take all my willpower not to kill her."

"If you are any angel of Tyr," Nevalle replied, a hand atop Axarthys's head protectively, "You would defend her. She has suffered greatly in the name of justice."

"My mercy she has under direction of Tyr. My pity will never be hers." Sedna Belladonna replied, kneeling before the seated tanar'ri. Axarthys trembled visibly, teeth chattering. The planetar cooed forebodingly, "Divine justice will be dealt to you by the end of this war. You may have seduced your human warden, but my lord deity will not wilt in face of your charms. You shudder, I see. That is well. Fear justice."

Axarthys mewled, "If you are of Tyr, see me as a fellow planar, and judge fairly my soul."

The planetar lifted the demon's face by the chin, freeing it of the knight's grasp to rejoin, "You _have _no soul."

The planetar dropped the demon's chin, regaining her footing to continue around the circle. Sedna Belladonna completed her lap about the table, halting at Nasher's side. She tilted herself across the table towards the map of the city, bolstered up on one elbow to permit the other arm full reign of the length of the map. She spread her digits, brushing the open space north of the city, "There are thirty-six legions of demons filtering down from the mountains toward Neverwinter. Hell-mouths have been opened, dispersedly and remotely enough that human contact is lessened. This assures the demons are not assaulted in their most vulnerable state- when they are re-entering the Abyss. This matter we will speak of later. For now, we must channel the demons' movements, limiting their siege power."

"They have the advantage descending from higher ground onto the city itself, but their movements are already restricted as the Neverwinter River flows on one side of their forces, barring them from surrounding the entire city," Casavir mentioned, his pointed finger falling from the crest of the mountaintops along one side, south towards Neverwinter, "If we dare to halve our army, we may send one half above the current positions of the abyssal legions and order half remain in the city, trapping the demons. This will force them to move along our west walls, towards the ocean. From that point, we may make use of a small naval force, where spell casters may launch projectile magic from a safe distance, driving the army south of Neverwinter, towards Waterdeep."

"Yes, indeed, what of Waterdeep? Have not they sent aid called for by the Lord's Alliance?" Sedna Belladonna asked.

"War came too swiftly to implore their aid." Nasher lamented, "We must rely on our own prowess."

"Good. Then we know precisely what parameters we have to work within. I agree heartily with the paladin Casavir, and additionally, I would add if we take a small party with Axarthys towards the hell mouths, it would bait the demons away from the city long enough that half the army could ascend the slopes above the demons. We could also use the opportunity to pursue the ranger Bishop, whose treachery should come to justice." The planetar responded, inquiring of Nevalle, "You aren't above the use of your prisoner in such a way?"

"No, not if it is for Neverwinter," he answered, "Though I do not like _knowingly_ placing her in harm's way. I would have more confidence if she went with knights I trusted."

"I will accompany her, at Tyr's request." Sedna Belladonna replied.

"If Lord Nasher would permit it, I would go with Axarthys. Know as well, planetar, I would be honored to battle alongside a celestial of Tyr." Casavir stated. The planetar nodded in graciousness. Axarthys squirmed in her seat, sitting up to grapple Nevalle's arm. He gazed to her, leaning in to hear her quivered whispers. He sighed, nodding and returning to the council.

"Axarthys does not feel safe traveling alongside a celestial and paladin both." Nevalle reported, "I, on the other hand, find it perfectly acceptable. There are two no more perfectly suited warriors to enter the Abyss and face down tanar'ri than a planetar and a paladin. Lord Nasher, if you find it permissible, I would agree to it."

"I trust your judgment. It will be allowed." Nasher replied.

"My lord, if I may," Nevalle added, "Axarthys has yet to present her thoughts. Would you hear them?"

"The demon may speak."

Nevalle uttered quietly to the demon for a few moments, the council exchanging questioning glares. Sedna Belladonna watched with patient disgust, Casavir with a compassionate indifference to her heritage. Eventually Nevalle swung the tanar'ri to her feet, a hand on the small of her back to support her standing. Axarthys leaned against the table, huffing infinitesimal breaths. She panted, "I need the name of the demon who leads the attack. Sedna…?"

"Dantalion." The planetar curtly replied. Axarthys's mouth gaped, her eyes springing tears.

"My father." She breathed. Axarthys crumpled backwards, caught in Nevalle's waiting arm. He forced her to stand, facing her towards the council. She exhaled sharply, fists tensing as fury sapped her strength. Her fear of divine power twisted into malice, an all-consuming spite. Hissing, she arched her spine and hung her shoulders over the table, snarling, "Planetar, you _knew _of this, did you not?"

"I had figured it so, though that is of little concern. You have far more worrisome threats than your father- _he_ seeks to return you home preferably in one piece. It is _Bishop_ you should be concerned about." Sedna Belladonna crooned from cross the room, "But you know nothing of his treachery, do you?"

Axarthys's gaze sharpened with raw rage, "I am not _deaf_. I _heard_ of Bishop's plot, consorting with Alvarez to make me Demogorgon's bride, but Dantalion will not allow it and seeks to reach me first. Let us exploit Bishop's treachery. Let us side with Dantalion."

"No. Instead, we must distract Dantalion's army and guide you to the hell mouths. From there, we will battle Bishop, while the misled abyssal forces are crushed by Neverwinter's army." Sedna Belladonna firmly stated. Axarthys's impatience carved itself, whittle to the emotion of contemplation. Considering the angel's plan the demon lifted partial weight from Nevalle's arm as she clung to the tabletop.

"We risk our lives crossing the war plains towards the hell mouths," she said, "Instead, let Dantalion lead us to them. If he wishes to save me from these walls, give him reason to do so- _knowingly_ threaten mylife, and he shall come to my aid, returning me through the hell mouths where Bishop may be found."

"And how are we to convincingly threaten your life without actually doing so? That may prove a higher risk than dodging the abyssal forces." Casavir mentioned.

"Flog me, hang me- but allow a third party to do so, someone not in understanding of these terms." Axarthys paused, rapped her fingers, and then said, "Adelaide. Adelaide Cryhart. Surrender me to her; permit her to punish me as she sees fits for my crimes. Surely her formulation for my death will be a lengthy one, allotting Dantalion fair time to rescue me and to slay her, if you agree she is so disposable."

"I cannot allow you to so daringly dispense of your life. Weak as you are, such an attempt could easily kill you." Nevalle chastised in her ear. Axarthys wrapped a palm over his, thumb stroking the back of his hand.

"If we are brave, Dantalion will be fast." She hushed in assurance, head yielded upon his shoulder. Nevalle eventually nodded, stiffening the embrace of his arm around her delicate waist.

"And who-" The planetar interrupted their shared moment of affection, "-Shall accompany you, led by Dantalion, to the Abyss?"

"Rightfully I would assume you, and perchance Casavir, who moments ago pledged his shield to my defense. A planetar is a feared force, and a paladin, whose holy aura burns the very marrow within demon bones, is welcome. Trail behind me, and I will lead you to the Abyss," Axarthys replied, lowering her voice to say, "Nevalle, I cannot bring myself to ask you to aid me over Neverwinter."

"I am glad." He replied.

"That is well, for Nevalle shall lead the armies of Neverwinter alongside me." Nasher proclaimed, "And as a sound course of battle has been set at our feet, all we must do now is follow it. You may each retire to your chambers. We reconvene for war on the morrow."

-

Author's Notes:

I can't believe this- 13 pages of this chapter that only BEGIN to cover the final battle! I decided to break it off after the council because not only does that keep the chapter length consistent with the others but it's a good point of closure. Not to mention, enough tension occurs in this chapter between Nevalle and Axarthys. You can only consume small portions of their drama at a time lest your brains splatter inside your intact skull. That's just disgusting.

Keep checking for the next chapter to be posted. Personally I don't know when that will be because I'm moving in to college this Friday, otherwise I'd give you a roundabout idea. 'Till then, have a happy Labor Day and enjoy the chapter!

Author-ly love always,

Valah


	10. Closing: Chapter Eight

Closing: Chapter Eight

_"What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, 'This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with __it,__ dust of the dust!' Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, 'Never have I heard anything more divine'?"_ -Friedrich Nietzsche

Sleep evaded Axarthys.

Night had long descended, and aged beyond the chardonnay of evening and past the merlot of midnight, evening darkened to a distinctively amaranthine shiraz. The tanar'ri's slumber had doubtless been restless- she herself was amazed Nevalle slept through her tumbling through the web of blankets- and so she yielded, woke, fell from the bed to satiate her legs with motion. Fragile, her bony limbs hesitated in step. Blessedly this rendered her footfalls quiet. The sound was like the muted sob of a child muffled by exhaustion. Interior, warm air inhabited her lungs to dull her sensibility. She sought natural air, and stumbled for the balcony at the end of the corridor. Axarthys clawed at the doors, prying them free to a burst of cool refreshment. The sunless exterior soothed her.

Yet her mind, unlike her body, was not so numbed.

War bothered the demon little. War was natural as it was fleeting, a human thing, and humanity concerned her little. She was removed from it. Save for that one last anchor weighing her vessel to that storm, _him_. The knight, Nevalle. She risked _everything_ vowing her love to him. Never had she enacted such a dynamic plot as this, never had she _dared_ lowered her defenses any lower than human emotion. Axarthys would not deny that some scrap of dignity compelled her to surrender herself to him, for after all, he'd saved her life twice. She even regretted in the slightest commanding Neverwinter's armies through him against her father and Bishop simply so she was not bound to Demogorgon, and could continue to thrive in her emissary trade. That was not to say she did not desire a minimalistic human life alongside the knight, for it would allow her the stability to carry out her usual business, but she feared it.

And fear barred her from sleep.

If she submitted to him, all she knew, thousands of years of a life she loved, would be lost. There was so much to lose and too much to gain. As if chess, she had disposed of the bishop and dallied with the knight to her immediate pleasure, yet the threat of the king at the opposite end of the board loomed. Her knight drew closer and closer to it, far from its own king, led astray into the blind oblivion of a world Axarthys controlled. Should the illusion of darkness fall, the knight would be no less a traitor to her than her people, as she had been to him.

Yet ambition did not vanquish her love.

Axarthys, though a demon, was not denied the lightheadedness of her love drawing near. Her heart fluttered with bliss when he spoke to her as if to another human, her hands run clammy with the thought of him. His voice was a beacon in the utter night she had known, illuminating a world her eyes had been blinded by shadow from. He lifted the veil of her heritage for her to peer onto a realm of angels. She no longer wished to see it. She wished to _be_ of it.

The very vision of it agonized her.

She could no longer bear to stand on the balcony to overlook that world, to see the glow of the stars on the water. The city laid out before her would only be her home if she remained steadfast, sided with Nevalle and crushed Dantalion's armies, the severing of her connection to the Abyss. Staring upon it worsened her longing for normality, if only as a means to secure her status as an emissary and assuring her sole control of her wealth, drawing it from the Saintrowe family hands. Turning from the panorama of Neverwinter she glided indoors. Transition between cool and warm afflicted her spine with shivers. Memories of hypothermia exacerbated the trembling. Scurrying to Nevalle's chambers she buried herself in the coverlets, nuzzling her coiled body into the knight's to sap his warmth.

She shivered still. It was fear.

-

Sedna Belladonna stood in the door frame, leaning poised against the wooden molding. Chestnut hair gushed from the crown of her head around the distinctive structure of her jaw, ending at the boundary of her gown's square neckline. The radiance of her angelic power cast a glow around her shoulders and face in the lacking light of earliest morn. Her unblinking, stern eyes like grey lanterns revealed to her the sight of the knight Nevalle, awake and stroking the white hair of the demoness asleep in his bed.

"You know she cannot love you." Sedna Belladonna called, alerting her presence. He gave her his glance momentarily, his eyes descended to rub one of Axarthys's horns between his fingers.

"Isn't that her curse, to love?" He mused aloud, "She's mentioned it in passing."

The planetar scoffed, entering the room with arms crossed over her torso. She shook her head sorrowfully, replying, "You do not take that very seriously, do you? Have you even considered the implications of your infatuation with her, both in _her _eyes and in the eyes of your god? Tyr would be most unpleased if you did not kill her."

"I refuse to harm her."

"Fool," she murmured, scornfully and regretfully for his sake. The planetar halted at the foot of the bed, uttering, "It is the _highest_ honor of our god to slay a demon, yet if this fiend were at _all_ benevolent, I would tell you otherwise. I would beseech Tyr for his mercy in her name and bestow on her the hope of our religion if she was at all of good heart. Yet can you tell me with _undeniable_ _conviction_ that she is moral? No. Because she has done _nothing_ to prove her decency. Tanar'ri have no compassion; they do not feel as we do. They kill. They torture. They are detached enough to do so. All that creates the illusion of her supposed morality is her rationality and intelligence, therefore her knowingness of the sheer _idiocy_ of turning against Neverwinter alone. She is no thoughtless savage, on this both of us are certain. But that does _not_ mean she is good."

Nevalle harkened the angel in brooding malcontent, silencing his disagreement. His lips pressed into a firm line, brows hardened into a scowl of fortitude. He shifted in his place as Axarthys tumbled in her slumber, rolling to her side to raise a pink wing from beneath the blankets to wrap it around herself. The planetar groaned woefully at this, stepping away from the bed to circle the perimeter of the parallel wall. Nevalle's eyes traced her movement in their peripheral vision. He retaliated eventually, asking, "Why did you come here? To indoctrinate me?"

"To _warn_ you," She rebuked, "This demon's heritage will not allow her to live any longer without betraying you. Axarthys has been dormant for many months, Nevalle. All those days of peace fuel her tanar'ri's cry for chaos. She poises herself for treachery."

"She will have little opportunity to betray us amidst war." Nevalle responded.

"You have seen war, Nevalle. You know in your heart that is not true." The planetar goaded. Still the knight shook his head fervently, passion erasing sensibility. He slumped into the pillows of his bed, tangling his hands in the demon's snowy tresses and sweeping his knuckles against the curvature of her cheek.

He said, "I care little. I love her."

Sedna Belladonna frowned, "Even if she wanted to love you in return, she could not. Her kind, they are inherently wicked, capable only of ambition, anarchy, and contempt. She is outside the light of Tyr. If you loved her as much as you say, you would let her go. Let her go _back_ to Dantalion, saving Neverwinter _and_ the demon from war."

"These words spill from the mouth that before wished to infiltrate the hell mouths and spoke to this tanar'ri only hate." He responded piercingly, "You don't _want_ what is best for her. She is better _dead_ to you than never to have been given the chance at life."

"Chance. Do you think that is what she gave the Knight Captain?" Sedna Belladonna replied austerely. The question struck the knight, causing his shoulders to tighten and his back to straighten. The planetar watched his eyes widen and shrink in anger once more, his arm replaced tenderly over the demon in defense. She proposed, "If perhaps you see the crime that spurned all of this, you will understand the words I speak. Would you see what I would show you?"

"I refuse to watch anything spawned from your distorted consciousness." He denied her. Sedna Belladonna's growl was a lengthened drawl on the stillness of the room.

"I am a planetar of Tyr. I am incapable of distorting truth, only showing it." She assured firmly, adding, "Do you fear the truth so much you would hide from it so? If you _are_ to be changed by this vision, it is Fate. If you are to embrace this demon despite the vision, it is true love. Neither outcome can wrong you, nor can it hinder my precautions. You are only able to see, I only to show. It is only a method to alert you to the Axarthys Saintrowe you have yet to know."

"Then that is your purpose here."

She replied, "Officially, yes. It is part of the work Tyr set me out to do. Our lord loves his followers a great deal, and would not have requested me to undertake the task of recollecting this murder for you if it was not to empower one of the most steadfast and loyal of his devotees. If you deny my offer, I am obliged to inform Tyr, and I will with great pleasure should you do so in corollary of your demonic obsession. If you accept, I will impart the vision in your memory through the eyes of another faithful Tyrran."

"Know what you offer to show cannot change how I feel for Axarthys. Whatever recollections you show me I agree to, but the outcome I will not promise will be to Tyr's liking." Nevalle warned, sitting up in his bed. Hesitance tensed the air about him, muscles hours ago run slack with sleep now hunched in anxiety. Sedna Belladonna recognized Nevalle had little choice but to see the vision she would bear him, lest he fall out of favor with Tyr and consequently lessen his influence in Neverwinter. The planetar contentedly realized too, as much as Nevalle claimed otherwise, no decent human being would be capable of stomaching the grotesqueness of the memory, and that ultimately the vision would undermine the naïveté of the love he reserved for the demon. The planetar shuddered with the irony of the demon's presence there. Asleep beside him Axarthys's slight form may have seemed nearly guiltless.

The memory would protest otherwise.

"Then you agree to what I offer?" Sedna Belladonna asked. The knight nodded almost solemnly, the vision a funeral for the romance that consumed the fiber of his being, the dirge for the thievery of his belief in the virtue of love. There was an expectancy of death in the chocolate spheres of his eyes, a fear that the fragile glass of his world crafted for Axarthys Saintrowe was shattering as the planetar knelt beside him, weaving her palms around his elbows to bear his arms in hers. Her touch, like Axarthys's, connected his mind to the celestial's. Save there was no intoxication to the planetar's grasp. No numbness, no blissful ignorance offered in the caress of his tanar'ri beloved. Reality and unreality meshed, blurred. As the warm woods of his chambers forged the cold stone of the Claimed Lands, Nevalle choked on the final moments of fleeting virtuousness and whatever chivalry accompanied it.

-

Balimynah of grace, Balimynah of elegance. Of gowns silk, velvet and chiffon, of crowns woven from branches of gold and sprigs of platinum and between their entwinement set with gemstone purple, red, orange and pink as the setting sun that beckoned twilight to consume the land in darkness. Whose heart ran black but her garb far from such shadow, Balimynah, whose voice like chardonnay ran sweet with joy and poisonous with alcohol. Balimynah, of both day and night, of beauty great derived from cruelty but never the action of cruelty itself, fed from chaos it did not in turn create.

Save then. Save for war.

What savage foolery, Balimynah thought of war. Yet there she stood at the windows of her palace halls, exoskeleton of her black armor embracing the slender curves of her girlish body like a pillar of ebony, supported by the dual claymores acting as the extension of her arms. Vanity she valued over anarchy, a truth that questioned the very heritage that would have had her pointlessly slaughter. Chaos Balimynah discovered in the uncertainty of political alliances, knowing which allies could be risked in attempt to gain stronger ones upon the mortal plane. Balimynah operated a business that tanar'ri lawlessness could have decimated. _Could_ have. For rare it was that war meant the furthering of her political agenda.

Yet the Lamb threatened that agenda. The Lamb was selfish, for the Lamb willed it that her life not be lived for the betterment of her family's order but for herself. The Lamb wanted a human pet, and a human life, and a human happiness, and all her emissary's wealth for herself. She wished to play as Balimynah did, to utilize mortals as the pawns upon her board of chess. The Lamb wished that power alone, and would not bow to Balimynah any longer. Even _this_ did not infuriate Balimynah as much as the implications of such action- the Lamb utterly refused Demogorgon's consortship, and that could mean the decimation of the Saintrowes altogether.

Given, Balimynah's permission of Dantalion's siege admittedly was not amongst the most tactful of her plots. The territory such action treaded was mountainous, treacherous, a feat Balimynah concerned over. However, Axarthys's betrayal required a severe reaction. Balimynah could not allow for leniency, lest the young Saintrowes follow the path of their sister. She was _forced_ into brutality. Balimynah took no pleasure in this; the Lamb was dear to her, not even as the finest of her emissaries, but as one of her children. She could not deny that her fondness for the tanar'ri far outweighed her anger, of this she was certain.

Though that sureness consoled her some, questions continued to swirl in the torrent of her thoughts. Would Axarthys be brought to her? Would war spill into her native plan, causing her armor and swords to transform from mere adornments of battle to the defense and offense of a warring soldier? Balimynah commanded the Fawn to battle, praying somehow the desperate sister could find a way to rescue the life of the Lamb. Her fear grew. If Neverwinter survived, perhaps Balimynah's concern would ease. Perhaps the guilt would not consume her. Swallowing her reputation, she suppressed that emotion. Shame could not be permitted to taint Balimynah of grace, Balimynah of elegance. Of gowns silk, velvet and chiffon, of crowns woven from branches of gold and sprigs of platinum and between their entwinement set with gemstone purple, red, orange and pink as the setting sun that beckoned twilight to, she prayed to whatever gods had the mercy to heed a demon, not to consume the land in darkness.

-

No paladin could prepare to enter hell.

In a similar way, it was as if to inquire of a sinner if they felt prepared to face divine judgment. Good and evil battled on a miniature scale in the mortal world, sin cured by all but the cleansing touch of a priest and the sincerity of repentance. As easily, sin could be committed in the drawing of a weapon or the cursing of a god. Yet upon the upper and lower planes, good and evil transcended the state of daily facets of existence. Good and evil were _defined_ by the planes that either threatened torment for sinners or bliss for the pious. Save the Faithless, the planes were what all mortals strived to reach in the afterlife. And he would _be _there, in the very planes he never desired to enter- the lower planes. The Abyss.

Casavir dove headlong into the fray, bold, in aid the planetar Sedna Belladonna. And indeed, he did wish to battle alongside the divine celestial, refueled by the warmth of Tyr that she radiated. The planetar represented the higher order his life he would sacrifice for, Tyr's order. Her bravery in facing the hells inspired him, inspiring his action. Yet valor, not even _piety_ could mask the fear that stirred within him. His goodness rendered him vulnerable. Demons would flock to him, and while the paladin had struck down tanar'ri before- _powerful_ tanar'ri- he was incapable of smiting whole scores of the Abyss's finest soldiers already weakened in his benevolence by the demonic malevolence the tanar'ri oozed.

Casavir found little peace in the cage of his quarters. Unable to be contained there, he ventured outside Castle Never, wandering beyond the far reaches of the Blacklake District into the Merchant Quarter and from those walls into the freedom the surrounding woods proffered. Foliage cushioned his step, the wind quieting the quickness of his breath. Nature softened his nearly unnatural presence there, tree branches extending their arms to embrace him. Beckoned, he entered the wood, lacing between the trunks to stroke their bark, breathing in every scent, absorbing every texture. Peace was there. But the stench of war he could never escape. The hell mouths, however far they were, defiled the air with the odor of smoke. Thunder of the applause of marching demons rattled the buckles of his boots.

It was an uneasy peace.

The breeze strengthened, the whirr of wind distinct and magical. Casavir's eyes shut, hands free from his sword belt to extend at his sides. The leaves rustled overheard. The air ran tepid with the anxiety of war. Denying himself any thought of the battle he erased his memories of whatever caused the war, whatever aggravated it, whatever brought him here. He released the remainder of the hatred he bore Axarthys Saintrowe, her poignant face of features exotic in countenance soft that no longer angered him fading in closure. He forgot the guilt of having consorted with Adelaide Cryhart, the definite viciousness of her strong-jawed, half-elven face splintering as the recollection passed. All that remained was the Knight Captain herself. Casavir clung to her memory, recreating the purity of the ivory of her smile, the sleek line of her nose and the brilliant spheres of her eyes on the canvas of his remembrance. He could envision her, the memory of her dancing the night before the final battle, her tunic fluttering as she clapped her hands and twirled charmingly upon the counters of the tavern. The dance was nearly frantic, her eyes filled with inward terror at whatever fate she unnervingly understood she would face against the King of Shadows, however unexpected that fate was. Her feet had moved too rapidly for it, her shoulders tense as she clapped to the thought of war.

And yet she danced. She _danced_, when no one else was brave enough to.

Axarthys Saintrowe had danced.

Nights after being assaulted, the tanar'ri had woven orchids into the snow of her hair and in the sunshine of her citrine gown she danced when all Neverwinter believed she had surrendered. She waltzed in the arms of the finest of the city's knights, dallied in the noble realm of the world she had stolen its hero from. In her bravery that very night she drove a sword through the leg of a traitor, saved the life of Casavir's captain, and induced the fury of the Docks with her bold display. Axarthys Saintrowe mocked challenge, smiled when defeat seemed imminent. However real her fears were, she masked them in the enigmatic smile and mystifying eyes of the beauty of her face.

Except Casavir could save this dancer. The dancer could be saved at the price of releasing the memory of the former, liberating him fully of his loathing of the demon.

Surrendering the Knight Captain's memory struck him as criminal in the earliest hours of the trial. There was no justice in forgetting that which he battled for so fervently, he had long thought. Now Casavir recognized in letting go of the memory, the Knight Captain, and he, could finally rest. There was serenity in that. More so there was _hope_ in that, hope left in imagining a fresh beginning without the misery of recollection. The Knight Captain herself was perpetually a part of him, this he understood. It was the _pain_ Casavir wished to free himself of. He outstretched his arms further, spread his hands far apart. The wind quickened in its whirl, weaving around his extended limbs and between his fingers. The breeze caressed the memories from his body as they exited his mind in exhaled breaths. He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, freeing the misery. Liberation lifted the scars from his emotional being, leaving the palette of his interior skin unmarred. Casavir willed the pain dematerialize, leaving nothing but the unadulterated reminiscence of the Knight Captain's soprano laughter and her unforgettable visage. The pain gone, those memories were clearer, richer, fuller, deeper. They were _complete_ again.

Renewed, rejuvenated, the broken heart once more reformed. Casavir opened his eyes to the forest about him, able to see every leaf and the life that pumped through the green vessels of its foliage, to hear every bird cry fleeting the wood for farther forests, to smell the sulphur of the approaching army. His armor did not burden his shoulders with the weight of its pauldrons, his mace light and purposeful resting in his hand. Once more he was a soldier of Neverwinter, returned to the glory and the honor of the days long before Old Owl Well. Once more he served Tyr, the Knight Captain the banner of the lawfulness he promoted. As his flag, she was eternal. As his flag, she would ever march with him into war. Casavir would stand against Dantalion for the very tanar'ri- no, not even the tanar'ri, but the _woman_- that consecrated the Knight Captain in death as to make of her not the most mourned of heroes but the most cherished of martyrs.

Casavir turned from the forest. He walked again towards the light of early dawn into the gates of Neverwinter, emancipated, whole. Tyr's hope awakened him from the lull of his agony, parted his clenched eyes to see the weeping city he once turned against. For the people Casavir saw herding their children indoors as war loomed, for the men that kissed farewell their wives and the wives that donned their armor to serve, departing frightfully their homes, the paladin would enter hell. He heeded Neverwinter's cry this time, and he would the remainder of his days.

-

Nevalle sensed death.

The scene was damp, dark, damning. His boots splashed in puddles of blood congealed and reeking. Ever was his sight wary, searching for Axarthys. But it was not his head to move. He would have called her name. But it was not his voice to speak. He would have drawn his weapon to defend her. But it was not his hand to raise. Nevalle soon came to acknowledge what Sedna Belladonna had explained. He could do naught but witness the recollection from another's eyes, a follower of Tyr as the planetar had warned.

Nevalle saw through Casavir's eyes.

Casavir and the Knight Captain traveled alone, divided from the remaining members of their entourage. Nevalle supposed the two foolish for moving ahead alone, scoffing to consider Casavir would so endanger a woman's life by bounding forward apart from the others to defend them. Perhaps, Nevalle mused, it had been part of Axarthys's scheme to alienate the Knight Captain. Had he controlled Casavir's body then, Nevalle would have trembled at the thought. Instead he dismissed it. Axarthys could not premeditate so cruelly the death of a mortal. She was an emissary, not an assassin. Axarthys's heart was incapable of mechanical mercilessness; Nevalle was sure of this. As the footfalls of the paladin trod forth into the darkness of the narrow corridors the knight felt Casavir's hand situate itself over the shoulder of the Knight Captain. The muscles of his mouth uplifted in a smile.

"We are close, my love," Casavir assured, stroking her neck. The Knight Captain slowed her gait to lay a bare hand over the paladin's. The touch was warm where Axarthys was not. The pulse of her heart was evident in the flutter of her hand's veins, bliss at the most innocent of love's touches. Her smiling eyes turned to Casavir, a soft beaming cross the pink of her lips. She returned her gaze to the gleam of the Sword of Gith.

"When this is over, _all_ of this," she promised, her voice a sound that filled the chill of that most wicked place with the flame of hope's warmth, "We will be happy."

Casavir bowed his head, chivalrous reverence compelling the recognition of the empty assurance of that future. Nevalle's frail hope failed at this exchange of words. Why would Sedna Belladonna show him this? Why would she burden him with the misery of that memory? He knew already the tale of the paladin's lost love; he needed to know no more. Nevalle did not _deserve_ that suffering. He did not wish to carry the broken heart of the paladin upon the altar of his consciousness for the remainder of his mortal days, wishing to erase the vision. He attempted to gain control of Casavir's limbs, to run far from that place and implore the planetar to stop what nightmare she had induced. He screamed in his mind, yet no audible sound emitted from his lips. Unable to reawaken into reality, Nevalle's distress tripled. Swallowing his sudden agony he feared deeply what would come. He knew the story. He knew the story, he knew it, he _knew _where that love would end, beneath the blade of a demon. The demon Axarthys Saintrowe, his dear Lamb.

Casavir rounded a corner, his fingers flexing over the hilt of his blade. He tensed, raising his shield above his shoulder. Suddenly he dove in front of the Knight Captain, hissing to her, "Down! Behind me!"

"Casavir!" She shrieked as she tumbled to the floor, knocked down by his sudden movement and the collision of his side into hers. The Sword of Gith plummeted with a metallic clatter. As her knees collided with the stone she yelped, rolling to regain the blade. Casavir whirled around to her, slinging his shield over his back to free and arm to lift her. The sword regained, the Knight Captain evaded his extended palm to alert, "There!"

She leapt in front of the paladin, charging forward into the shadows. Casavir called her name, yet she only gasped in reply, a struggling, muffled series of howls following that ended with a thump, then silence. Cautious the paladin replaced his shield over his arm, feet positioned for battle. Nevalle felt his brow pound with an unceremonious attentiveness, his senses empowered by the dread thrill of combat. His breathing quickened as from the shadows a collection of minute noises echoed. It was as if three diabolical, supernatural voices chattered and chuckled concurrently. Again Casavir called for the Knight Captain, his speech constricted to the worried yelp of the syllables of her name. A pause, too long for Nevalle to bear, and then another chorus of laughter. As Casavir began to approach the noise, a silhouette materialized from the dimness.

"Pity, pity, pity. _Ante mortem __aut__vincere__aut__mori_" Three voices again mocked, all spoken from the same mouth. In the bare light the crest of Axarthys's white hair glittered like fresh snow, the pink of her eyes a glow. The Knight Captain's body hung flailing weakly in the assailant's arm. Casavir whirled his hand, hissed a string of words and summoned light to the darkness of the cave. From the ceiling to the floor it coursed its illumination, revealing fully the scene staged before the paladin. Axarthys's lengthy, sleek locks lay silken over bare, frail shoulders as a dusting of snow, her horns a tyrant crown worn atop the height of her lifted head. The scarlet leather of her armor left a multitude of bare flesh revealed, one hand gloved a similar crimson. Nevalle almost thrilled at the sight. Then he saw the hand was drenched in blood.

The Knight-Captain bled from inside her mouth, her lips opened as if to make a sound though no noise came. Casavir called once more for his love, answered only by gurgling. The demoniacal chattering sounded again. The knight's whole body would have stiffened then, stationary with dread. Sheer horror overtook him. Nevalle's own love, the precious Lamb, gazed down at her quarry unfeelingly, eyes drained of the compassion he'd celebrated in those two pink lanterns. Axarthys, her gaze inhumanly callous with expression as cold and hardhearted as stone, murmured in explanation, "Her vocal chords are severed."

Casavir screamed, charging the tanar'ri. Axarthys lifted a serrated scimitar, its point positioned at the Knight Captain's upper back between the shoulders. The paladin halted instantaneously, mace extending in poise, body frozen in stillness. The tanar'ri whispered viciously, "Remain motionless there, paladin, and perhaps I shall restore her to your captivity."

"Lies!" Casavir cried. Nevalle begged Axarthys in his mind to free the Knight Captain. He pleaded with the Lamb, swore he loved her so, wept of her to liberate the life of that woman, the Knight Captain. _Axarthys, Axarthys,_ he frantically begged in thought, praying the words would somehow be emitted through Casavir's lips, _Axarthys, my Lamb, my Axarthys please, please let her go, please stop and come back to me, come back, come stay with me, come and I'll dry the innermost tears I know you cry, I know you cry, I know you cry. _Nevalle futilely implored. Tears that Casavir did not shed spilled from the knight inwardly, sobs that senselessly begged to end what had previously transpired. Juxtaposed to tears, the demon smiled. She smiled to the pointed incisors of her glossy teeth, the frame of her stormy lips encircling the heartless beaming of her mouth. She broke Nevalle's heart with her smile, cracked the veneer of what shielded him from the truth of her being. Nevalle tried to plead with the paladin to fight, to retrieve the Knight Captain. Casavir, the fool, he remained still! Just as the paladin heaved his mace upward the slightest inch, the sword's point at the Knight Captain's back crashed through her upper chest.

Before Casavir could attack the tanar'ri, she had finished sawing to the woman's lower abdomen. Each time Nevalle head the crack of ribs being broken or the pounding of the scimitar against the Knight Captain's spine the shell of his heart split more. The entrails of his emotion leaked free, exhausting his capacity for feeling at all. Halved flesh hung lifelessly from the warrior's body. Her mouth, gaping, quivered hauntingly accompanied by silence only made quiet by the slosh of rising blood from her throat. Time slowed until each singular, rhythmic impalement became more and more gradual. Split open, the Knight Captain's life faded swiftly. Her eyes closed in death before Casavir could catch her in his arms.

It was at that moment that Nevalle broke from Casavir's memory. He saw Axarthys, and their eyes caught one another's stare. She nodded in finality, her pink eyes piercingly poignant, their beauty lost eternally. Rejoining the shadow the last Nevalle saw before she faded into the depths of the hallway was the ephemeral shimmer of pallid tresses. With her Nevalle saw the fragile, dearest love he bore her depart his soul. Now his love was no less a memory than the vision itself. Tears he knew he could not cry in that world soon coursed a glacial down his cheeks as the recollection dismantled, abandoning him to the pitilessness of reality, his heart an apple cored of its love.

-

_Cold_.

Axarthys suffered it, numb by decree of the wooden floor farthest from the fireplace. Once, she slumbered in the soothing heat thriving between the folds of her knight's bed covers, adorned in the pearl-beaded lace of velveteen robes. Having woken in such a world for numberless morns the difference ached. Her joints welled with immobility, throbbing as the tanar'ri leveled her seat upon the floor. Hesitant as her knees were to bend the demon demanded it be so, and ladylike she reposed awake in a lonesome crook of the knight's quarters. The cream chiffon of her nightdress clouded her bare flesh as opal gossamer, too flimsy a fabric to present her warmth in that glacial position. Challenged to prevail against the cold the tanar'ri rose to stand, wings expanded and then reclosed. Her delicate jaw tilted, staring at Nevalle. At the edge of the bed he sat crumpled, leaning over his knees with back towards her.

War. War was coming, and he feared it, Axarthys considered. She cavorted in somnolent dance to scale the bed behind him, ringing her arms around the circle of his waist. Instead of warm reception his reply was cold rejection, rising to have him stand from the bed, walking away, the embrace of the slenderness of her feeble arms a crestfallen signal of his despair. The tanar'ri followed him, capturing his wrist in both her infinitesimal hands. When still he did not halt she clung to his arm, mewling, "Of what concerns you, beloved of knights?"

"Truth," he whispered, "And love, virtue, and chivalry."

"All of which dear you've born in your heart and defended passionately." Axarthys cooed. In the absence of his usual soft grin there stretched a distinguishing, detached frown cross his lips. Detached not in lack of sentiment but in too much of it, as if sensations themselves fleeted in emotional overload.

"And I was wrong to do so." He offered quietly, again breaking from her touch to stand before the foot of his bed. Nevalle remained there many moments, hushed in mournful meditation. Axarthys gazed onward, alone at the opposite end of the chamber, abandoned. Where once there was love that filled whatever empty space spanned between them now there was only emptiness. Autumnal love bound to winter's pending ice began to shed the life of its leaves, the tale of their romance drawing its last breaths. The solitude Axarthys experienced in the minutes Nevalle wiled in rumination starved her spirit. Outside the wind howled, the grey of the sky before the storm refusing to allow morning's brilliance to shine upon the Lamb and her knight one final day. The sun of a love once recognized in yellow orchids and blue fabric ribbon settled into evening. Night would come and in darkness turn whatever hope remained for them to shadow, the moon's patina mirroring the sun of their former coexistence.

"There was hope left for us once." Axarthys mourned, hushed.

Nevalle sighed, a breath drawn after in swiftness of looming tears. He glanced over one shoulder and unable to bear the sight of her vulnerable outline in the grey glow, he peeled his russet eyes from her visage. He murmured, "The woman I loved was but a façade for the demon within. The planetar showed me everything. I watched the Knight Captain _fall_, Axarthys, and I was vain to have loved a hollow shell."

"Hollow, perchance, but not empty." The demon mewled. Nevalle faced her. Once a disciple of her temple he no longer believed. The skeleton of the demon's actions flayed of its emotive flesh, Axarthys could not longer summon tears. The former acolyte of her crafted religion now was her judge, a secondary verdict lingering upon his expression. Neverwinter's justice sought to punish through flesh- through the burn of holy water upon the mask of her unholy skin, through the exile of her physical body upon the ships of Ruathym, though the hypothermia that stiffened her sinew with cold. All this Axarthys conquered; corporal pain fleeted. Nevalle's justice doubtless sought to punish the fragility of her sentience. Terror tortured Axarthys in the very thought that emotional pain was eternal.

"I fell in love with a woman that does not exist," Nevalle uttered, "I loved the Axarthys Saintrowe who believed in dignity, honor and nobility, tarnished by a crime I thought purely committed as an act of war. But there was no dignity, no honor or nobility in the death of the Knight Captain."

Axarthys whispered insistently, "You knew of my crime long before you loved me."

"Yes, and I was a fool to not have seen the implications of the extent of your malice. You _used_ our love to bring war to Neverwinter and for it we are both to blame." He quietly rebuked, hands clutching either side of his face as he grappled for words. Raising his head, locking shut his eyes and dipping his neck back, he beseeched Tyr for aid, concluding, "We must go to Dantalion and end this. The lives of my people are worth the price of ours."

"I shall go alone." Axarthys responded, but Nevalle would not have it.

"No. I must see through what I've began." He replied, straightening his neck to part his eyes, lowering their gaze towards the floor as he passed her, walking to the window. His breath was a fog on the glass, the dampness outside clinging to the glass. Axarthys tentatively approached him, a hand settled at the base of his back as her head reposed against the length of his forearm. He did not shirk from her, nor did he look upon her striking shape chastely and sparingly pressed against his body.

"Amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur," Dulcetly, soothingly she hummed. The song wove itself of the iron of a lament and the lace of a serenade, the steel of a ballad and the silk of a minuet. When the last note of her foreign hymn ceased, Axarthys explained, sadly an in regret, "_We choose to love; we do not choose to cease loving_."

-

As dawn in muted grey cast a white palette of tarnished light across the fields of war outside Neverwinter, Adelaide waited. Such action was not derived of choice; had she a choice, the death of Axarthys Saintrowe would have transpired long before that moment. Contrary to this impatience, the paladin could undoubtedly loiter in the confines of her prison cell for the opportunity to execute the tanar'ri at all. Thus Adelaide paced the walls of her cage, rapping upon the iron bars with fingers bare of armor. Flesh against iron thumped, the lethargy of the rhythm evident as well in her gait. She toiled in her impatience, considering long had past that twilight hour preceding the sunrise, when efforts of war were in their final details prepared, the soldiers aligned in throngs along the plains of battle.

Adelaide understood Axarthys's death was a ploy to concentrate the surge of demons that marched on the city, bridling the vast strength of the many legions into a focused position so the lesser numbers of mortal troops could easily hone their attacks on a single stream of combatants. The paladin had been schooled in the art of war. She, a tyrant to Neverwintan justice, was disposable, and at the forefront of the tactic's plot it was likely her death would preclude the tanar'ri's; with her demise, the demons would rescue their demoness. Adelaide did not dread death, contented with the exchange of her life for even the _chance_ to torture Axarthys Saintrowe. Truly, she woke when night in its darkness still clung to the veil of the sky, and a vigor and vigilance had overtaken the common morning tire. The paladin wished war, wished it for vengeance and glory both. Stripped of fear, raw enthusiasm awakened her conscious self. It was magnificent.

Not an hour had passed when two guards removed her from her prison cell, bearing her plate mail in their arms. Adelaide refused it, taking from them but the boots and tunic of the Neverwinter Nine to don them atop the coarse muslin of her prisoner's breeches and shirt. Her sword she looped through her belt, clutching its hilt feverishly as her perspiration palm loosened her wrenching grasp. She leapt up stairs, bounded through halls, the beat of her heart escalated. Red Fallow's Watch, so many countless years past, avenged that day; the sheer notion electrified Adelaide, pulsated in her veins. Liberated, she entered Nasher's throne room, locks disheveled about the lopsided collar of her tunic. Hastily she bowed to her armored lord, trotted to her place in a line of Neverwinter's attentive generals of war: Casavir and Sedna Belladonna. Two paladins and a planetar to combat the mighty legions of hell- such irony, Adelaide considered, that Tyr willed to be so.

Nasher before them rose. There was happiness in his eyes, a celebratory sparkle of optimistic light that perplexed Adelaide. As well there subsisted a sorrow in his expression. He descended from his lofty throne to stand at his soldier's level, halting at their center to dejectedly glance to his right side, then to the marble floors, to announce, "Tyr has blessed Neverwinter with fine soldiers. On the eve of war our city's knights and guards polish the old blood of their armor, wipe clean their weapons of the lives of fallen foes. In war they risk sacrificing their lives to sustain peace, riding home victorious whether alive upon their horses or dead upon the corpse-carts alongside lost comrades. Yet there exist a rare and exceptional few who would walk deliberately to a guaranteed death to save both the lives of his people and his fellow soldiers. Know that Tyr has blessed us with fine soldiers, but even finer men.

"This morning I woke to the promise of war. I woke to the immediate threat of demons marching upon our city, to the uncertainty of the strategies we planned, and to the loss of many soldiers-many _men_- who have already given so much of themselves for Neverwinter's sake. I woke knowing many would have seen their last morning today. Then a man came to me and offered his life in exchange for the salvation of Neverwinter. He said to me, 'I've served this city many years, and won't act a coward now to watch it fall'. For his sacrifice, you have been summoned here to be informed there will be no war, and that your captain has gone to his death for you. Though Neverwinter has been spared, we've lost the finest of our knights, Sir Nevalle. Casavir, in his stead, he wished you be named the Captain of the Nine."

Casavir dared to part his lips in speech but Adelaide intercepted, stepping forth towards her former liege to hiss, "And so for one man's idealism you expect Neverwinter to send its soldiers home? We are at _war_, Nasher."

Sedna Belladonna added smoothly, "I do not neglect the severity of the sacrifice the knight has made, for his action transcends what Tyr expects of his followers. But I do agree that we must retain a level of caution. However great his actions, it is unwise to depend upon the success of one man. It is not in my place to dictate your war strategy; I only suggest we act pragmatically."

"And in so doing we risk showing Captain Nevalle our distrust of his capacity and irreverence to his sacrifice." Casavir replied, sighing, "Yet the loss of this city is far too great a loss on the behalf of one man."

"He walks to his death regardless. We haven't the _chance_ to be reverent to the dead, Casavir- _abandon _your paladin morality in the face of war." Adelaide snapped, snarling, "Or are ideals of more importance than the survival of this city and the preservation of-"

"-Adelaide, _silence_," Nasher demanded to the low growl and recoiling of her unarmored body behind the planetar, "You were summoned here as nothing more than a ploy, and now you stand here for no greater reason than my graciousness. Sedna Belladonna speaks well, her plan a solid one, and Casavir, the consideration of your comrades is honorable. Let us see to it that both matters are handled properly. We may reformat our original strategy to complement Nevalle's singular infiltration of the hell mouths along with the tanar'ri, perhaps channeling the demons south with a force stationed exclusively along the river and around the upper walls of the city."

"In so doing, we would draw the tanar'ri from their hell mouths, alienating them from their source of abyssal power. Naturally, with fewer demons surrounding the portals it will be much more likely for the knight and the demoness to enter the Abyss unharmed. Though we cannot predict what will transpire once they reach that plane, it is as best a chance as we may offer them. From there, you must invest your faith in Axarthys Saintrowe." Sedna Belladonna said, "Nasher, should we depart to station the soldiers? It is best we prepare early."

"Yes, you are dismissed. Though Adelaide- I am wary to trust you. Go with the planetar." Nasher answered. Adelaide lowly growled, stomping off in a weathered sashay before Sedna Belladonna and the paladin. The two lingered, departing the throne room slowly, as if to hesitate walking to their fates. Perhaps the planetar wished to allow the paladin a moment more to draw off her celestial aura. Casavir glanced to the planetar, fingers tingling with the sensation of her divinity as she strode beside him. She was warm and he wasn't even _touching_ her. As they strolled farther from the throne room, Sedna Belladonna gave a gentle chuckle.

"Nervous?" Casavir asked politely. She shook her head.

"Amused, actually," she responded, "I haven't slain a tanar'ri in a number of decades."

"Yet planetars are traditionally the celestial generals who aid mortals in battling fiends." Casavir noted. The planetar laughed once more, audible and alto.

"Astute. I see you studied tediously to become a paladin, as well any paladin should. You see, once my sole purpose was suppressing demonic and devilish uprisings throughout Toril. It is what Tyr believed I excelled in, and a task I admit I had a penchant for. Then I was assigned to exterminate a succubae coven, and there was an alu-child there. I killed her; I followed the order explicitly. The guilt has lasted many years, and now I find myself in a situation painfully similar," She explained, shrugging sadly, "I bear Axarthys Saintrowe much disdain, but she, she-"

"Has a comparable innocence?" Casavir asked. Sedna Belladonna's lips pursed as if to retort, though no words escaped. She only nodded, dipping her head downwards.

"Let us see to war, not Axarthys Saintrowe." She managed finally.

-

Through the field she strolled, gait as if in promenade and not as if a march towards death's jaws where the hell mouths opened from the core of Faerun into extraplanar landscapes. Her leathery wings offered flight and instead she walked alongside her knight, the narrow panels of pink silk that dangled at her front and back from the waist of her scant, black armor stained with the moisture of the grass, the chill of autumnal winds turning her breath to fog. The white of her widely-curled hair tangled in the zephyrs, her fine jaw tucked over the shoulder of a fragile arm to see Nevalle behind her. Her gaze she proffered to him for a moment, repealing it as the auburn of his eyes met hers. She fleeted then, floating off into the grey haze of the morn.

Nevalle would have shouted she steady her pace, deciding speaking to her ached far too much to attempt it. Her response, liquid silk in its muted dirge, drove a blade deeper into the core of his heart. The innocence of the Lamb expired at witnessing her crime; having peered into the hollow of her naive veneer, his heart corrupted with the memory, he could no longer smile when she spoke. Her speech was poison.

Instead of the final utterances of goodbye and the last declarations of love, they marched in silence. Unearthly Axarthys Saintrowe glided cross the terrain, somber and reminiscent of the golden age of her earthly being. These were the final moments of the reign of the Lamb on the mortal plane, the finale of a world once lived in the luxury of Waterdeep upon the sprawling vineyards of her estate and once loved in the soul of a knight within the halls of the City of Skilled Hands. The era lived roaming the Neverwinter Wood alongside her ranger and wandering the Docks barefoot and pensive was dying. Her golden age began with war and would end in like; from the blood and fire of Red Fallow's Watch to the blood and fire of the Abyss, Axarthys had ever been ephemeral. Her time upon Faerunian soil ended then, circumvented. Closure could be sought in that truth. Nevalle did not seek it.

When at last Axarthys had led them to the hell mouths she halted, facing Nevalle. In the fog she appeared alone. He continued to walk towards her, each step closer revealing a refined silhouette of the demons lined in formation. The screen collapsed as he stood within ten feet of Axarthys, the thousands of demons- from the strongest colossal crimson-skinned balor generals and serpentine marilith commanders to taloned nabassu captains and fanged nalfeshnee mages to the lowliest diminuitive manes and mindless hezrous. Nevalle felt his lungs tighten, the instinct to retreat strong. Breath quickened to swift puffs of fog as he willed himself to move forward. There were _hundreds_ of tanar'ri, if not _thousands_. Half of the demonic ilk Nevalle had never seen- or battled- the likes of before. Chasme patrols soared high in the air, circling the army from the heavens. Armanites plated in suits of armor aligned in a row of glimmering silver, motionless and attentive. At the forefront of the army, Dantalion stood. Tall and imposing, his autumn eyes intense and jaded acknowledged the human. Armored entirely in oranges and blacks, his fiery wings unfurled stylishly, he extended the point of his longsword, black hair tossed in the wind about the barbs of his reddish horns. Beside him, Axarthys appeared a vision, the only beauty found against the palette of demon kind stationed behind her. Her father said, voice confident in telling charisma, "You dare to march alone on an army of the Abyss's finest warriors. Are you _mad_?"

"He is a knight of Neverwinter, father," Axarthys leaned towards the demon to utter, "Thrice he has saved my life, and thus it belongs to him. Be kind to him; he has brought me to you, and would follow me home if necessary."

"He stinks of mortal flesh, little Lamb. Blessedly he is also a traitor having loved you; otherwise I'd be retching from the stench of his goodness. Repulsive. These Tyrrans are worst; that band of paladins and clerics couldn't help slaying fiends if Tyr _himself_ told them to. I dislike your affection for Neverwintan, in general _human_ men, my daughter, though I can't deny you chose better with this one. He has bravado. The _last_ one was as miserable as Lynkhab and as insatiable as Malcanthet." Dantalion snorted, pacing a portion of his legions to beckon Nevalle forward. The knight hesitantly obliged to walk next to the tanar'ri, leaving Axarthys as the two ventured along the interminable line of fiends assembled away from where she stood. Nevalle recognized this as an opportunity to implore the siege of Neverwinter be halted, but he could not risk forthrightness. He swallowed his anxiety, forcing his patience to last.

"You risk much by coming here." Dantalion said. Nevalle's teeth clamped on his gums. He plotted his response, subtle and significant, rehearsing it in his thoughts in the pause between breaths' clouds of white exhaled onto the haze.

"I accept that my life may be forfeit." He vocalized cautiously.

"Death pales in comparison to what the demon lords would do to you," Dantalion responded sharply, "Tell me, would you die for Neverwinter before you would my daughter?"

"I would," Nevalle admitted quietly, "Axarthys would not love me if that was untrue. She cares for me as a knight, and as a knight I must retain my code of chivalry and subservience to Neverwinter. Do not think I didn't love her; I loved her so dearly I allowed my city to go to war for the preservation of our love. There is something extraordinary about your daughter, something evocative, perhaps something provocative. She had me questioning _every_ belief I invested in my city and in Tyr."

"You speak as though you no longer love her." Dantalion replied.

"Her crime… a, a planetar showed me what occurred to our city's Knight Captain. The brutality of that action contradicted the Axarthys I knew, questioned the vulnerable woman I rescued from freezing to her death, the woman who I took a sword to the torso for, the woman whose burns I healed. I knew an Axarthys that did not exist, an Axarthys whose love was but a shell." Nevalle lamented.

Dantalion snarled distinctively, aggravation apparent, explaining, "Love and lineage are separate entities. She can do _nothing_ to change that she is a tanar'ri, human. Remember as well that though her demonic blood no doubt has led her to sin, humans and demons alike have stumbled. You forget the eons of good she has done as an emissary in the genuine love she has for humankind, for what? Because once she acted as any demon would?"

Nevalle wronged, he sealed his lips and continued to stroll alongside the legions. What Dantalion spoke was painfully true; Axarthys had been born a demon, and nothing could be done to remedy that. As they turned to walk towards her, Nevalle gazed upon her in regret. He could not love her even still, however much he desired to in repentance of having severed her from his love for her former actions. The thought consuming him, the knight could no longer focus on his duty to Neverwinter. He bowed his head, depressed. Dantalion stopped then, clamping one gauntleted hand on Nevalle's shoulder to utter, "Do you know why I brought war here, human?"

"You work on behalf of Demogorgon, who wishes Axarthys to become his consort." Nevalle emptily replied. Dantalion hesitated, growling impatiently.

"No," he snapped after a moment, "Are you so _blind_? You _directly _caused the concern for her safety in Neverwinter that spawned this war, human- you were the cause of it; you _drove _House Saintrowe to war because you couldn't control your urge to _rape her in a bath tub _when she was hypothermic. _Your_ mortal incapacity to control with your head what swings between your legs ended with my daughter becoming _pregnant_, and House Saintrowe is ravenous for the expansion of its power and the births of more demonic children."

"That cannot be." Nevalle protested, "She was, was hypothermic, _dying_."

"The dying cannot conceive, now? What other untruths float within the confines of your human mind? _Look_ at her, human. You cannot see the softness in her eyes, the love she bears you lingering there? She may not know herself but she radiates with life. I am damned that you cannot sense it, mortal." Dantalion seethed.

"You _are_ damned." Nevalle growled, fighting past advancing demons towards Axarthys. He could not help but pity her, but feel for her. _He'd _done this to her, he admitted silent. Love began to battle its control of his emotions and he combated it, suppressing the urge to surrender himself to Axarthys again. She was _cruel_, evil, corrupt, powerful, potent, provoking, seductive, lithe beneath the guise of her armor, her skin like- _no_, he demanded of himself. When love failed a great sorrow overcame him once more, filling the hole in his heart left by her love. What would Axarthys do? Where would she go? How would his child live? Nevalle gazed towards the heavens. Tyr would have him die not for Neverwinter, but for his child, if not both his child and its mother. No, he wished to walk to his demise for his _city_, not her!

"We march now on your Neverwinter, human, regardless if Axarthys you have returned to us." Dantalion called behind him. Nevalle clutched his sword, drawing it halfway from its scabbard. He battled for his _city_! He would not die for Axarthys Saintrowe, nor for any half-demon child she bore him. They were _both_ spawned from evil, made of the substance Tyr himself frowned upon and bade his followers to extinguish. Nevalle's brown eyes focused on Axarthys in the distance, the legions of demons swarming past her. She stood motionless, her white hair a flag that rippled as if a sign of surrender in the wind. Her eyes gazed forth in supreme sadness, closing when the knight's eyes fell directly upon hers. He dropped his blade back into its sheath.

"Dantalion!" he yelled over the advancing tanar'ri, "Your siege will end by this night! I march to your lord, and soon your war will cease!"

"You are a fool, human!" he laughed heartily, the noise fading into the grey air as he leapt from the earth to unfurl his wings and ascend into the sky, his blade fully flourished. He called out in the demonic tongues to his legions, their cheers filling the atmosphere with the thickening breaths of sulfurous exhales of victorious phrases, their stomping quaking the ground. Nevalle darted between the legs of a massive balor towards Axarthys, scooping her into his arm's grasp as she gasped at the unceremonious action.

"They march! We must find Dantalion! He must stop this!" Axarthys yelped.

"We are beyond ending this civilly." Nevalle snapped hopelessly.

-

The Purging Duke ventured the maze of dungeons, navigating his entourage of demons through tunnels towards the central banquet hall. His path was littered with the wooden and iron masses of torturous constructs. Damned mortals wept and shrieked for liberation, salvation. The tanar'ri lord licked his maw in gratification, his footsteps' knock silenced by the puddles of blood that he strode through. A man strapped to the rack screeched as his shoulders and hips snapped in dislocation, the tautness of his bonds leaving his hands and bare feet bluish and bleeding at the bindings. A woman pleaded for reprieve as her eyes were cored out by a score of impish demons, tittering and chattering at the sounds. Alvarez's lips twisted into a grin, a softly pleased one stripped of complete joy with the absence of his darling demoness, Lamb. Her naive smile, whatever guile it masked, was the joy of a thousand tortured cries.

Alvarez admired her diminutive, slender form in his thoughts, honored the dawn of her pink wings stretched across her shoulders, the pout of her glossed lips and the cloud of her snowy tresses curled and cascading over the skeletal frame of her shoulders about the lace of a trimmed velvet gown. What a precious pet she had been, and so stylish, so decorous, so poised. He lusted for her, annoyed at the bawling of a human girl twenty years old who struggled under the spikes of her leather bonds against the ceiling above. Those cries could have been Axarthys's gasps as she sprawled beneath him upon the red damask of his bed. Snarling he stomped faster towards the banquet hall, considering Axarthys better belonging to Demogorgon than the human knight if she would belong to anyone at all. That _human_ did not deserve the exotic elegance of the Princess of Demons as his own.

The tanar'ri approached the hall and entered, slamming the door behind him to bar his entourage from entering. He sighed, exasperated, and kneaded his brow, trudging to the seat at the head of the magnificent feast set out on the lengthy table before him. The hulking mounds of red, roasted flesh he enjoyed remained untouched, the glass of merlot at his plate struck with the back of his hand. He watched as the wine like blood coursed through the veins of the dead, dried wood of the table and leaked to a sweet, gummy puddle on the stone ground. A light chuckle was omitted from the opposite end of the table, and Alvarez's piercing stare lifted to seek the source of the sound. Bishop, his new champion, sat in one of the opulent chairs with his ankles crossed and feet propped upon the surface of the table. He gnawed barbarically at a turkey leg, an uncorked and half-downed bottle of zinfandel cradled in his lap.

"I told you not to show your face here unless Axarthys Saintrowe accompanied you." Alvarez hissed. Bishop smiled, tearing a mouthful of meat from the roasted limb in his mouth.

"Ah, but you see, your plan left no room for _happenchance_." He announced, tossing the devoured turkey leg to the floor, "We had a lucky change of circumstances. Little Lamb entered the Abyss. Dantalion summoned his army to play with the Neverwintan soldiers, opened some hell mouths that she used, and I jumped in after her. Found my way here; ranger, you know. Good at finding places, animals, people, _demons_."

"You would reap the benefits of champion when you have not been declared as such and have done naught to prove your worth? I shall have the skin _flayed_ from your face, human." Alvarez barked. Bishop shrugged, pouring wine down his throat. The empty bottle he discarded onto the floor with the bones, the shatter of glass satisfying to his ears, as if the chorus of sweet bells on a quiet afternoon.

"You forget I want Axarthys worse than you. I wish to reclaim what is mine in retrieving her. You think I would let her bow to Demogorgon and become his consort?" Bishop asked, slipping from his seat to stand behind the Purging Duke's chair. He drew a thin rapier, pressing it to the demon lord's throat. The tanar'ri laughed.

"No mortal weapon may end my existence." He spat. Bishop smiled widely, hauntingly.

"Ah, but you see, that is where you are fatally incorrect, _my lord._ Here you are, casually accepting me into your service, trusting me with this task. You think I will arm myself with common weapons, allow you to have Axarthys Saintrowe, prized amongst your people? Do you think, after countless unworthy masters, I will bend my knee to you? _No_. Now, allow me to explain. This blade was christened in the blood of a faithful Tyrran, and it thirsts for the blood of demon kind." The ranger explicated. Alvarez's skin began to bubble up under the blade, reddening at the touch of the sword. The tanar'ri summoned his voice to protest but all that escaped his lips was a strained hiss. Bishop sunk the metal into the flesh of the demon lord's neck, thrusting backwards to cleanly sever the head from its shoulders without so much as a scream in dissent.

-

The winding black halls, as if marble carved in the fashion of organic coils of spindling branched, arched stories above. Columns endless in their height rose like stripped tree trunks from the glassy gloss of the polished floors, that estate a forest of inorganic stone perched above the volcano's pits below, the fireworks of lava spurting from the festering wounds of the Abyss, flickering in lights red and orange most gleaming. Arrow slits in the castle's exterior permitted the fiery light to illuminate the dark halls of that place, the floors buffed to mirror the fleeting specters of light as they shimmered past. Succubi armed with lofty scythes guarded each passage, their eyes obscured by the platinum visors that shielded the upper halves of their faces. Nevalle knew even disguised, their eyes were upon him.

Before him, Axarthys wove the labyrinth of the slender corridors, her rose skirts shuffling with the ripple of silk against the marble beneath her heeled boots. The narrowness of her leather-clad waist contradicted the existence of the child within her, the knight considered poignantly, though not for much longer. Axarthys soon would know; a few months' time pregnant was barely a moment's time in the ceaseless of immortality. But by then, Nevalle would be dead. He had long imagined marrying a young noblewoman, keeping the conception of their first child secret so only between them the joy could be shared. Part of that hope was rooted in decorum, part in self-want. Instead Nevalle was disturbed to think she, who should have known of the child first, was the only one unaware of it. Tyr perchance willed it to be so, so that Nevalle's death would not pain the tanar'ri as much. To detach the knight from her, so his passing would be made easier for the both of them.

Why was he so certain he would die?

He didn't wish to dwell on the answer. He followed Axarthys thoughtlessly, pleased more with thoughtlessness than a swell of memories that only offered the memory of tears and blood. The clap of her heels against the marble awakened him to the present, beckoned him from his brooding. Axarthys glanced over her shoulder to assure he trailed behind her, standing motionless at the entry to the throne room. She uttered, "Speak cautiously to Ladyship Balimynah or not at all."

Axarthys floated into the throne room, ascending the dais to curtsy deeply. Balimynah, rage scribed in the marble white of her skin and in the colorless stone of her eyes, tensed her ivory wings. The black plates of her armor creaked as her muscles tensed. Before Axarthy could stand upright Balimynah struck her with the back of her palm, sending Axarthys stumbling in shock to the cushions beneath her matron. Nevalle's hand reached for his blade. He faltered. _Caution_. He'd battled demons before; should the situation become dire, he would know how to react. His arms fell slack at his sides, standing in the threshold to the chamber. Balimynah hissed at Axarthys, "_That_ is for terrifying me with the prospect of losing you to holy water, the ranger's sword, hypothermia and _war_. Retire to your chambers, Lamb, and prepare yourself to be presented to Lord Demogorgon. Do not make it seem you would bring war to him in this _armor_ you wear."

"My ladyship, permission to speak." Axarthys whispered, gathering herself to her feet, quivering as she steadied herself on her heels. Balimynah sighed, nodding faintly. Axarthys motioned to the floor below the dais, murmuring, "Sir Nevalle, Captain of Neverwinter."

Balimynah's gaze transfixed on his, narrowing. She muttered to Axarthys, "Leave us."

"At once, my ladyship." Axarthys replied, descending the dais to pass Nevalle. She did not acknowledge him, her face chastely bowed against her chest as the applaud of her heels resounded further and further in echo behind him. Balimynah stared unblinkingly at the knight until the footsteps dissipated, leaving she and the knight in utter silence. Nevalle allowed a pause before gradually bowing, arising unhurriedly as to solidify his action in the demoness's mind. She spoke nothing, as if waiting for his words. He parted his lips, hearing Balimynah growl lowly.

"You would speak, mortal? Do not. You have _nothing_ to say. You have done _quite_ enough to shake the foundations of this house to say anything on the matter, and in fact, on _any _matter." She snapped, reclining deep into her plush throne. Balimynah buried her face into one of her hands, "I _despise_ you Tyrrans. Trotting about the planes declaring justice and honor like fools, ruining the lives of demons and devils alike purely because a handful of celestials dictated it be so, when fiends have done _nothing_ to you."

"The Knight Captain's death was nothing, then." Nevalle noted beneath his breath, throat drying when Balimynah's fist pounded one of the armrests of her throne, her head bounding upwards.

"Be _silent, _human!" She shrieked, breathing heavily as she recoiled into her seat, "You have _decimated _the life of my Lamb! You _dared_ to have loved her, abandon her with child and seek to die at the hands of her people! What a _spineless_ evasion of your fate. You _sicken_ me. My little Lamb shall swell miserably with your child while you find peace in _death_. You are a _coward_."

"My lady, if I may," He voiced, "I would speak for my actions."

"And what will you say, _human_?" She seethed. Nevalle inhaled deeply, sinking to his knees in veneration.

"Axarthys is a shrewd woman, my lady. Her love is warily placed and difficultly won. I respect it greatly. I swear, my lady, I repeal my love for her in complete compassion. Detachment will lessen her suffering when it is time for my life to expire for hers and my child's to continue." He sorrowfully responded, subdued and hushed, mourning, "If it were possible, my lady, I would easily wed your daughter, raise our child on the expanses of her vineyards. But if my life buys her and my child that happiness, so be it. I came to you prepared to die for them."

"You came here prepared to die because you could no longer bear the death of the Knight Captain replayed in your thoughts!" Balimynah rebuked, though her tone was too questioning of itself to indicate the firmness of the words it spoke. She groaned, kneading her temples wearily. Her eyes' sorrow attested to un-cried tears, her lips trembling in bereavement for what lived still. Her voice abruptly plunged to a snivel, uttering, "It was I that filled the head of the beloved Axarthys Saintrowe with tales of knights' heroism. Her sisters I could please with stories of impish mischief, perhaps quell the begging of their ears with the account of the Reckoning of Hell, quench their narrative thirst with descriptions of faerie realms unknown to demon kind. But never the Lamb. My sweet Lamb would mewl for legends of faraway kingdoms, of damsels locked in towers whose knights would rescue them. While her sisters battled cheerfully through these halls, she would perch by the windows, staring for hours. She told me she was waiting for a knight to save her from the tower. She wished so _desperately_ to be human. I see now how heartbreakingly close she came in you. If only she knew that in fairytales, demons are not permitted happy endings."

Balimynah lifted her jaw, composure promptly regained. She braced her hands on the arm rests and rose from her seat, extending the full length of her white wings. She commanded, "You will march with Lamb to the gateways beneath this volcano's base. There my vanguard shall accompany you to the eighty-eighth abyssal layer, the Brine Flats; this is the realm of Demogorgon. You shall proceed to the central island continent and enter the capital city of Lemoriax, where our lord's palace is located. You travel as my Lamb's gift to Demogorgon, _not _her champion. This will strike my lord as combative and he shall squeeze the life from Axarthys's lungs for it. Now, if you wish to cease war, you must go to Demogorgon and accept his terms, surrendering Lamb to him. Likely because she is with child, he will reject her consortship and return her to my jurisdiction. _You _will not be so fortunate."

"I am ready to die." He replied firmly. Balimynah laughed darkly, wagging a finger at him.

"Oh, my foolish human, your fate shall be far worse than death." She responded, descending the dais to lift his chin, threatening, "If the demise of the Knight Captain haunts your memory, I cannot _begin_ to imagine the horror you will bear your own fate. Demogorgon commands power to inflict pain a thousand times crueler than human comprehension can grasp. You Tyrrans shiver in the presence of a single sufferer of possession. Imagine tens of _thousands_ of demons coursing through your body, twisting your limbs in ways the joints do not bend. Imagine your beating heart being torn from your chest, tanar'ri devouring it as you watch helplessly, consider every muscle in your body decaying and snapping from the bones which they-"

"-Ladyship Balimynah?"

Axarthys leaned in the doorframe, calling softly for her matron. Balimynah turned to smile lovingly, motioning for her to step into the luminosity of the room's chandelier. Like a glistening ray of sun, she had shed the night of her armor for the yellow of a cat suit that appeared to have been poured on her body. Squares had been cut from the sides of her torso and thighs to reveal the storm of her skin beneath, the dip of the neckline falling to her waist. Half her snowy tresses had been secured back, the rest left to fall in bangs cross one rose eye and over the semicircle of her shoulder. Cascades of golden chains sparkled like champagne in the pale light, but Nevalle knew better than that deception; she was as poisonous and provocative as the finest amontillado. Her spaded tail swayed restlessly, the steel spikes of her heels screeching against the stone floor precariously as she shifted. Behind her, the pink leather of her wings unfurled, her hand reposed at the small of her back revealing itself, gloved in yellow and clasping the woven hilt of the whip Legion. A half-mask of yellow leather covering her face's lower half she removed, her red-painted lips as crimson as human blood and in their true color blue with cold beneath. It was difficult to see her as a mother.

"It is time you depart." Balimynah instructed. Axarthys glanced to Nevalle momentarily, her knees weakening as her posture loosened.

"We must speak first. There is much left unsaid, my lady." She replied. Balimynah snorted, brow arched acerbically as she began towards the exit of the chamber.

"My Lamb," she spoke as she left, "If you only knew the _half_ of what is unsaid and undone."

Once Axarthys was assured Balimynah had far fleeted towards her chambers, she circled the room, soaking in its sights as if it were a mirage. Her expression combated the consideration of this reality. She paced as if anxious, steps fast and nimble as she shook her head incredulously. Neither spoke for a time. Axarthys finally halted before him, shrugging powerlessly. She battled tears that outlined her lower lids in what seemed liquid glass, crystalline and gossamer. She asked, "Why did we leave Neverwinter, my most beloved knight?"

"Because if you love me as a knight, you must allow me to serve my people as best I can." He answered. She quivered, nearly fuming at that response.

"Knights die to defend a noblewoman's honor, impaled upon the lances of their opponents. Knights battle for love as much as honor, for chivalry more than for the salvation of their people from war." She insisted weakly. She gasped when he clutched her by the shoulders, drawing her close with a tenderness she'd forgotten after his morning detachment of her. Now, in the chill of her flesh underneath her leather, he abandoned his detachment as she sapped the warmth from his hands with the ice of her skin.

"You speak of a happy ending," he hushed, "I share your dream, Axarthys. To live out my days in the service of a Neverwinter that is at peace. I've dreamed of building you an estate upon a grand vineyard, and in the warmth of Neverwinter, your vines would never perish with winter's cold. Our halls would forever smell of orchids cut fresh from our gardens, our hedge maze a labyrinth we could lose ourselves in should the weight of the world have burdened us beyond our capacity to carry it. We'd be married in the vineyards, have a score of children. I envisioned a future for us, Axarthys. But you are a demon, my Lamb, and our happiness thus is banned from us."

"For Tyr despises our love so." Axarthys exclaimed.

"That isn't true," he cooed, gnawing on his lower lip with an anxious, thrilled sigh. He cradled her head in his hands, tangled a hand in her pallid locks. He rocked her in his embrace, whispering, "We suffered much, but in suffering, there is greater compassion. For you see, Tyr loves us dearly. He loves us so much that when he realized I would sacrifice myself for his city Neverwinter, he sealed our love forever with the conception of our child."

"But I'm not…" Axarthys trailed, quivering.

"That is why your family sought you return, Axarthys, so our child may preserve your lineage." He replied. The tanar'ri turned from him, shoulders descending as her neck curved, her lofty chin fallen. Her eyes outlined in the glass of tears met his, a passionate plea for the return to the surface world where this forthcoming child could be loved in the household the knight spoke of, if only in dreams. Instead of weeping she nodded solemnly. Fate, not Nevalle, embraced her then, and she bore it with similar reception in her arms.

"Demogorgon will slay us both." She called.

"Or only I, if I may sway his decision otherwise." Nevalle responded. Axarthys fingered the hilt of her whip, talons clamping over the red leather like iron over silk.

"You life belongs to _me_." She unexpectedly hissed, her expression losing its humanity for a brief second. Pink eyes flickered red, skeletal hands fixed upon her brandished weapon with preternatural power. The soft curves of her ageless features sharpened, her gaze rusted with the ferocity of her statement. Nevalle approached her, touching a shoulder. Her features loosened, her gaze once more loving. Tears welled strongly in her eyes, her mewled words lamenting his death, "I cannot _lose_ you, my treasured knight. My heart cannot withstand any more anguish."

"You are strong enough to conquer it." He promised, smiling, "You are a demon. You are no ordinary woman."

"Yet still, I am a woman." She reflected with a frown, turning from him to dry her eyes of the threatened tears. Axarthys's stilettos rapped on the marble, her whip trailing behind her as if a crimson serpent. She ascended the dais, perching upon the armrest of the throne to release her wings like some leathery pink cloak over her back.

In that light, the halo of the demon Axarthys's ashen hair, dampened with dim light, appeared beneath her horns' crown of thorns as her eyes rose to the crystal chandelier above. Her lips fell into a disillusioned frown, and a hand lifted, halting Nevalle from joining her atop the dais. The clamor of his boots and the shuffle of his cloak subsided. Axarthys's heels pressed into the marble of the floor; she could feel the canter of Nevalle's palomino stallion as it dashed through the city atop it, feel the burn that singed her flesh. Then an ebony-haired man, scarred from the war against the King of Shadows and freshly knighted as one of the Neverwinter Nine, leaned into the walls of her chamber and professed his apology to her, not as her superior but as her equal. She remembered that raven night, that blonde knight, the affection she harbored for him then recognized in full as they prepared to dive off the highest peaks of their love into the wastes below, joyous and sorrowful in a sacrifice Axarthys wished she would have never made. No war would be avoided by this foolery; war was too advanced upon the mortal plane, and she knew it. No, now marching to Demogorgon was useless and it was necessary, a profession of chivalry the demon and the knight craved. Tonight, they danced in hell.

"Once, my most cherished knight, you told the paladin Casavir that I was a dangerous woman. That was a lie. I am a dangerous _demon_," Axarthys said, tears fleeted as she rose from the throne with power instilled in her spirit for the coming misery that would act as the cementation of their love, smiling fiercely. Now, she led this man to his death in proof of his devotion to her, laughing mockingly in face of their predicament, declaring, "Make of me your orchid, Nevalle. Follow me into the depths of hell."

-

War engulfed Neverwinter's walls. The square stones comprising the barricade chipped in the hail of arrows so dense the sky grew dark and the air hissed with the descent of their fall. Winged demons swept and soared through the air, launching orbs of necromantic magic as large as ship anchors, their victorious cackling piercing the stale grey sky. The balor generals roared ominously, commanding legions to march endlessly upon the slim rows of Neverwintan soldiers. Casavir and Sedna Belladonna at their forefront, glowing white to demonic eyes with Tyrran auras, readied their weapons for the fresh wave of beasts to the slaughter. Thus far the crash of fiendish battalions upon mortal shields ended with few Neverwintan losses and the decimation of the enemy forces. Save as combat lingered the mortals grew exhausted with battle, their arms weary from the weight of plate mail and swords. The demons, however, did not tire. They fought industriously, mechanized with undeterred resolve, some of the fallen regenerating and bounding to battle again and again. Their onslaught was endless, their siege tireless.

"Sedna!" Casavir called over the clash, whirling his mace to smash into the ribcage of a lamia. The planetar swung her long sword upwards, severing the wing of a succubus to have it flutter to the ground, snarling. She drove the point of her blade into the base of its spine, guarding the futile counterattack of the demon with her shield. She glanced over her shoulder at Casavir, her stony eyes vigilant.

"Above you." She coolly replied. Casavir lifted his gaze, ducking as an incubus swooped over him. As the fiend fell, struck by a Neverwintan arrow, the paladin raised his brow and returned to the celestial. She exclaimed, "It appears they may have slain the knight Nevalle and taken Axarthys Saintrowe by force. We must find the demoness; Tyr wills her safety."

"Behind you." Casavir noted. Sedna Belladonna whipped in semicircle, slicing into the torso of a raging hezrou. The massive beast shrieked and stumbled, allotting the celestial the opportunity to leap into the air, plunging her sword into its chest to turn it like a screw. She kicked off the surface of the monster's chest and landed on her feet as the thing plummeted to the earth with a thud. Casavir added, "We should stay with Neverwinter. Axarthys is safe amongst her own people."

"Tyr charged me with defending her. I shall _not_ fail." Sedna Belladonna insisted, dipping downwards to avoid the assault of a swarm of imps. Fiercely she flailed, horizontally splitting the wind with her blade to halve the mephits. Casavir sighed and continued to battle, breathing hard as he pummeled a lunging succubus, and after it a rutterkin who toppled into a multitude of deceased manes upon the grass as if shattered. The balor and marilith commanders shouted orders for another legion to descend. The Neverwintan soldiers behind Casavir trembled with exhaustion, their battle ceaseless. They had already lost their captain Nevalle to the fight, and they themselves were tempted with the thought of submission. The demons drained all hope left, and somehow Casavir had to inspire their persistence.

From the fray a new score of demons emerged, succubae armed heavily that they doubled as aerial and artillery forces. Adelaide had bounded before Casavir, wildly and artfully turning her sword to smite the tanar'ri. As she leapt off to assault a new demonic host, Casavir noted a vaguely familiar face. A demon, with blonde curls and tan flesh, ran for him. He lifted his mace, but she had no weapon drawn and his arms lowered cautiously. As she drew closer, the paladin saw her eyes: pink.

"Stop! Please, stop, I mean you no harm." The demoness squealed as she nearly stumbled into the paladin. He caught the demon in his arms. Her face had Axarthys's features: small, rounded, feminine. She hyperventilated, gasping, "You, you are the paladin the Lamb knows. You must come with me, to the Abyss. With the angel, the planetar; I saw her, in battle, she must-"

"-Does the knight live?" Casavir interjected. She nodded.

It was all he needed to know.

-

A vessel crafted of fine ebony wood bore the knight and his demon across the sea to the capital of the Brine Flats, Lemoriax. The tanar'ri had taken her seat at the front of the boat, her patent cat suit reflective of the water's preternatural light, a white skirt opened at either side of her waist to reveal her leather-clad thighs so reflective their surface mirrored the loveliness of her cloud of hair. Nevalle took his place behind her, leaning over her shoulder to breathe in the sweet scent of her delicate tresses. One of her wings coiled over his back, shielding him from the view of the demonic ferryman that navigated the vessel from the entry into that layer of the Abyss cross the ocean towards Demogorgon's palace. The journey was blurred as if a memory, softening the sight of leviathan's arched spines breeching the water, the monsters appearing as commonplace waves. The moment felt a dream, an unreality perpetuated by the apprehension that the dream's finale was unavoidably death. Axarthys replaced her head against the knight's, her bare touch sharpening his comprehension of reality. Her thoughts echoed in his mind, _Look forth, my treasured knight. The spires that rise from the earth are the jewels of Lemoriax, the palace of Demogorgon._

_My__tomb, _he thought, nearly bitter. Axarthys's fear and sorrow raged through him.

_Silence such thoughts, lest you shatter the heart you sought to defend,_ she rebuked, _Nevalle, my prized of knights, shall Tyr condone the repetition of the war with the King of Shadows? Shall he cast down the innocent as sacrifice to a cruel and enemy bloodlust?_

_We are far from innocent, Axarthys, _he replied, drawing away from her to sigh audibly, gazing at the enormous columns that ascended from Lemoriax's center, comprising the halls of Demogorgon's stronghold. The vessel docked on the rainforest shores, white with sand and edged in the emerald arms of outstretched flora. Hibiscus flowers larger than human hands sprouted in fireworks of the hues of the sunset, beckoning the knight to crawl from the boat onto the damp, yielding sand. The air was stagnant, tepid, suffocating. Axarthys inhaled it as if water to quench an ancient thirst, the air's warmth combating the constant chill she seemed to suffer. Her colored lips regained a shade of grey beneath their gloss, a smile sealing the small joy heat provided her. Continuing ahead of Nevalle, she disappeared into the greenery ahead onto a narrow forest path, arms extended to brush the bark of trees she passed. The knight observed her, cemented her memory in his thoughts to treasure it for whatever time remained for him. Her head turned, as if to question why he did not immediately pursue her.

"Will you not follow me swiftly? I fear any moment passed lacking your company, with what few moments remain." Axarthys said. Stepping into the arch of two knotted trees above, Nevalle began on the forest path. He reached Axarthys, resting a palm on the crest of her head.

"If you are brave, I will be fast." He promised. The lack of her response solidified her sheer sadness at the truth, the gradual step of her gait attesting to her hesitance to surrender the knight for Neverwinter's behalf. Their journey to those looming spires of Lemoriax's palace was protracted, or perhaps it was fleet- time drifted and time soared in the Abyss, lacking consistency. Transcendence of extraplanar existence evaded Nevalle's mortality, dwarfed him and stripped consciousness of him, forcing him to ebb between understanding of abyssal passage of time and perplexity at the same ordeal. It numbed his pain at the thought of his immolation for Neverwinter's sake. But it could not dull the misery of abandoning his unborn child in death. Nothing could remedy that.

Nevalle gazed up at the forest canopy above. The trees were wet with salty dew. He could taste the flavor in the air. Perhaps it was but the sea winds. Perchance it was a false perception. Everything in that world seemed artificial, he realized, surreal and otherworldly and beyond his comprehension. Even Axarthys's fleeting form was blurred in ethereal radiance, her snow-tresses glowing preternaturally white and her wings waxy, their veins like capillaries of glass sheer to the scarlet blood that coursed them. As she trekked in front of him, her delicate paces quicker than his, she faded from his vision swiftly. Nevalle quickened his step, yet somehow was never close to her again. She was transitory, and he could never know why.

The journey, converse to the distortion of time and space, passed promptly. Each moment a gift, a lasting second of the last of his life, the knight emotionally soaked in their passing, absorbed what little feeling remained. No man could be prepared to enter hell, whether they had been paladin or knight, noble or commoner. Abyssal fears surely agitated his unpreparedness. It was death that instigated his restlessness most. A torrent of emotions consumed him: sorrow, terror, anger, panic. Of all things one thing was sure, and it anchored the storm in his heart: he loved Axarthys fearsomely, even more now that he had for a moment doubted that love. Following in her steps, regardless to where those steps led, was to the knight an honor unmatched by that which he felt entering Neverwinter's knighthood.

Perhaps hours had spanned since Axarthys and Nevalle had sailed upon the vessel, perhaps only a score of minutes. However much time had passed, it had been adequate to arrive at the city of Lemoriax. The city itself was twisted in its architecture, a scene from the darkest depths of dementia, despairing and melancholy. Lifeless constructs of grey stone like monuments pierced the rainforest floor and rose tall above the demon and the human walking. Demonic denizens alien and polished as Axarthys glided past the human, scoping him with inhuman eyes as desiccated as the desert without rain, empty of emotions. Hideous fiends and hulking beasts thundered, their gait like earthquakes quavering in tremors beneath the human's feet. As one balor wrung his whip longingly, Axarthys snatched her human's wrist and hastened her pace, plaiting the winding paths of the city towards the entry to the grand towers looming above them, the palace. At the base of the gargantuan mass, two armored suits extended their falchions, commanding mechanically, "No human enters, Ladyship Lamb."

"He is my present to our lordship." Axarthys smiled amiably. The guards retained their blades, heaving them back to allow the demoness passage. She slinked past them, Nevalle in pursuit. Axarthys glanced upwards, uttering as the pair walked further from the guards, "I am most frustrated you have not wings. Flight is preferable to reach Demogorgon's throne at the highest peak of these towers."

"As we are all aware, the lord of all demons would appreciate a little demoness leaping through one of his windows and landing square on his carpet woven of human souls." Nevalle replied. When Axarthys returned his sarcasm with a raise of her brow, he swallowed his fear. That description surely was no hyperbole.

"You think lowly of my people because they reap your mortal existence from you. Do not deny me that in my eyes you have seen compassion, or doubt the sincerity in Ladyship Balimynah's embrace of her Lamb. Where there is great chaos there is deeper devotion," Axarthys noted, pausing before she began to ascend the stairwell to Demogorgon's lair, whispering, "Devotion is all that remains to anchor us when all else is consumed in storm."

He replied, "You have called me _anchor_."

She trembled then.

Their journey did not span much longer, and it was spanned in silence. Ascending the steps rendered both weary, likely more so from the nearness it proffered to the human's death. Axarthys's breathing became shallow and tearful, her movement plodding. The human reached for the demon's arm, clasping its upper half to draw her into his awaiting arms. Slung across his shoulder, he carried her the remaining way, the pink leather of her wings draped over his back and her spaded tail coiled around his thigh. He leaned into the cloud of her hair, basking in the sunlight of her presence and shivering at the chill of her touch. At the highest summit, where the stairs melded into the stone plains of the highest palace floor, Nevalle replaced Axarthys to her feet with the click of her heels. She continued to grasp his shoulders, her petite form pitiably slight recognized in full as he watched her loosen her tail from around his leg.

"Are you ready?" He asked her. She gnawed on her lower lip.

"No." She mewled.

They persisted regardless. Hand in hand, side by side, equal in pace they walked towards the gilded doors of the chamber. Axarthys clung to the human's arm, trembling as her knight clasped the doors' handles. She buried her face into the knight's side, weeping. The human would not prolong their misery, entering the room dragging the demon along beside him. She stumbled, winding her grasp tighter round his forearm.

The chamber was sparse, towering windows devoid of plush drapery. No warmth of wooden furnishings livened the room. All that distinguished it from a dungeon was the intensity of the dreadful, bitter chill that turned the human's breath a fog and matched the incessant cold of the demon's grey flesh. Axarthys could not have been happy there, even should she have ruled as the lord demon's consort. She longed for the luxuriance of satin curtains and the velvet cushions of plush beds, for ivory bathtubs and mahogany vanities.

Demogorgon emerged from shadows, the twenty-feet of ceiling barely enough to contain his lofty mass. His two heads focused on the demon first and then the human. Axarthys curtsied daintily, lifting the white skirts bound to her hips with porcelain fingers, her eyes gazing downwards in submission and reverence. The Demon Prince chuckled, the sound audible as it resonated throughout the bare room. Axarthys beamed superficially, un-cried tears rimming the sorrow of her pink eyes. Demogorgon lowered himself onto his knees to view her better, commenting, "I have been told you are the most beautiful of demons. It is why I sought you at first."

"Your efforts are well spent, for I am talented beyond the beauty I maintain." She responded. Demogorgon scoffed.

"Your worthlessness has become apparent since the time when I would have believed that. You lack physical strength. You could win no battle for me. Your reputation precedes you as an emissary, who sneers at the likes of my succubae for their means; you are renowned for your arrogance. Your scant talents include courtly etiquette and foreign tongues, both of which serve me little. You are a table ornament, and as I am now _fully_ aware, you are made _useless_ with the child you carry by the _human _who you risk carting to my throne." He scrutinized, expecting her shock. Even so she nodded, folding her hands delicately over her waist.

"Perchance a table ornament is more cunning than you would admit, my lord." She challenged dulcetly, adding, "You know not that I am with child. Surely your knowledge derives from the falsehood of envious succubae's tales, and their gossip is worth less than I would be to you pregnant."

"You seek to question my sources?" Demogorgon's heads smiled fiercely. Behind him a demon strutted haughtily forth, the knock of his newly-polished boots leonine, predatory. Wings as green as poison unraveled behind him, the metal studs of his armor as poignant as stars upon the black canvas of night. A black spaded tail like some ebony viper whipped at his sides behind him, his horns shimmering like oil from the disheveled tangle of his auburn hair. Heartless, unmistakable chocolate orbs focused on Axarthys, his grin callous.

"Hello, my Lamb." He growled. Axarthys clutched Legion at her side. He beamed sinisterly, approaching her predatorily with a sluggish limp, wagging a finger, "You are a traitorous little _bitch_, Axarthys. It's become your habit to seduce men, use them for whatever cruel means you have and then dispose of them. You are no better than the succubae you scorn, you _whore_. Look at you! You brought Nevalle here to _die_ for you, and he walks willingly to his death, completely oblivious! Cheers to you, demon. I've never been capable of devising such consistent cruelties."

"_Bishop_." She hissed. He stopped in front of her, shaking his head, amused.

"My Prince may find you undesirable, but I don't. For my sworn loyalty, he'd trade me your life. Just like old times, my precious Lamb. Except we'd have your half-demon _brat_ to maintain." He snarled, seizing a handful of her white locks to force her head back. His hand clamped over her mouth before she screamed, pinning her to his chest to taunt to the knight, "I will make her a noble of demons, knight. I will parade her upon my plane whenever I desire, _fuck_ her whenever and wherever I wish, and in fact, I could do so with you in our presence and chained to the stone walls of my dungeons."

"You have _no_ authority." Nevalle snapped. Bishop smiled sharply.

Demogorgon interjected, "Bishop rested the crown of the Purging Duke from Alvarez himself. He is now the ruler of Torturous Truth, the plain of the lord of torture. His allegiance I seal with the consortship of Axarthys Saintrowe."

"House Saintrowe would not allow it!" Axarthys retaliated, freeing herself of Bishop's hand over her mouth as she struggled under his embrace.

The demon prince rumbled, "House Saintrowe requested Dantalion recover you for House Saintrowe. I permitted it under the stipulation that your consortship would be mine, and as such, it is also mine to give."

"I am _not_-"

"Now, now, little Lamb," Bishop purred, "You dare to refuse a station at my side, to deny your family the glory of having been elevated to consortship of a demon lord? You are selfish, Axarthys. We'll have to work on that. And we'll have to dispose of your pet, too. Demon queens command mariliths and succubae, not humans. They are _beneath_ you."

"Ironic words spill from your lips, _ranger_." She snapped, squirming unremittingly, "Your low birth would stain the nobility of my name. I can nary stand the _stench_ of your common flesh; I cannot _fathom_ that I shared a bed with you."

"Well then, you'd better start. Soon my bed will be the _only_ bed you will occupy, far from this high-born, useless knight." Bishop clutched her tiny neck, binding her head against the surface of his chest, eyes raised to the knight across from him, "And what a _perfect_ example of your worthlessness. A knight that won't even rescue his precious damsel. Don't you want her back? To stow her away in the tallest towers of your castle and ride with her on white horses? Come and get her from me, Captain of the Nine, if she means _so much_ to you."

"You suppose I would approach her, only to have you harm her? Release her first." Nevalle stipulated. Bishop boomed with laughter.

"Then it isn't called 'rescuing', _knight_. You always _were _a fool. You know, I wouldn't have ever _considered _you'd get your manicured hands on her; incredible, I must say. You were always so unfailing loyal, so blindly obedient, so _trapped_ in your fairy-tale world of nobles and knights. _Fool_." Bishop snarled, a hand drawing away the leather encasing Axarthys's shoulder. She bucked under his grasp and the ranger muffled her shout with his palm, jerking her neck to arch against his torso. Axarthys stomped on one of the ranger's feet with a stiletto heel, eliciting a shriek from him, loosening his grasp. As he stumbled back she sunk to her feet, fleeting the knot of his grasp to roll cross the floor. In one sweep of her thin arm she wrestled Legion from her waist and brandished it viciously, thrashing its red braid in the air. Legion's impressive crack echoed the chamber.

"_I will flay __the skin from your body__, ranger_!" She shouted, raising the hilt of her weapon to strike him down as he limped backwards. Demogorgon's chorus of dual laughter emanated, the backdrop for Nevalle's calling for Axarthys. Before her weapon fell upon the ranger's flesh, he caught her arm and restrained her.

"Axarthys, no," he implored, "Let me offer myself instead. Don't _do_ this."

"_Neither of our lives __belong__ to a traitor!"_ She proclaimed, breaking free of the knight's arms to lift her whip. Nevalle snatched her hard this time, the ferocity of his grasp enough to slacken her hand, relinquishing her weapon. Legion's thud on the floor brought Bishop to his knees, smirking unrelentingly. He got to his feet and limped towards Axarthys. Nevalle's arm coiled around her waist defensively.

"What _grace_, Axarthys." He hummed cruelly. He dipped the scabbard at his waist, catching his rapier as it fell from its casing. Twirling it he tossed its hilt in his grip, abruptly pointing its edge to the knight, "Surrender the demoness, or it shall be the second time you meet my blade."

"For her freedom, you could have my life instead." Nevalle countered. Bishop's brow rose, his smile fading.

"I planned on killing you _any ways_." He replied, annoyed. The knight shrugged, lifting his chin as Bishop's rapier pressed against his jaw.

"If you seek Axarthys's misery, reap from her what she loves most." He offered. Axarthys writhed in his embrace, shaking her head and uttering denials of her love's plot. Bishop listened closely to her, expression morphed from aggravation to intrigue. He shifted his blade to her, resting the point of his sword at the base of her neck.

"Would you give your knight to me, so that he is mine to torture? And when I tire of tormenting him, beating him, flogging him, could you live peacefully knowing I disposed of him?" He asked. She turned her face away from the sword, firmly pressing her lips together. Bishop brought his rapier to the other side of her face, forcing her cheek to realign so their gaze was level. Her tears were silent and ireful. Bishop lifted his brows in question, prodding, "_Well_?"

"Cum tacent, clamant." She murmured. Bishop seethed, growling as he pressed the point of his rapier into her grey cheek, splitting it down from the eye to the jaw. She cupped it with a hand, the blood flowing and weaving between her gold-painted finger nails down to the curvature of skin between her fingers. Axarthys swallowed the pain, Nevalle pressing the end of his sleeve to her wound tenderly. She buried her face into his tunic, blood and tears colliding in emotional downpour. The knight's hardened stare met Bishop's.

"Torture her as you wish. It is I you bargain with, and you are a coward to strike a woman rather than me." He rebuked. Bishop's laughter halted, his tawny eyes run cold despite the autumnal warmth of their hue.

"_Fine_," he snapped irritably, replacing his rapier in its scabbard to cross his arms defiantly and authoritatively over his chest, "You have _no_ idea what diabolical pact you're entering. You will become the first victim of the new Lord of Torturous Truth, and all those terrors you've seen in your castle dungeons, _knight_, _you_ will now suffer."

"So be it." He replied composedly. Bishop grumbled.

"You will suffer _forever._ You will become immortal, live for eternity in pain. Death will only be your reprieve _when I say so_." The ranger growled.

"I came prepared to sacrifice whatever was asked of me, Bishop. If that is your price, then I'll pay it. Axarthys's freedom is priceless." He kissed the crest of her snowy hair, caressed the muscle beneath her neck. She shivered endlessly, arms clamped around her middle. Her misery pleased Bishop. If she suffered most knowing her knight suffered for _her_, the ranger would pay with her freedom. Ultimately, regardless of where she roamed, she would never be free of the guilt that accompanied eternally condemning her human pet.

Bishop circled the two, pacing. The offer seemed painfully sweet. Axarthys would ever know _precisely_ where the knight was imprisoned, and as an emissary, traveling the planes was necessary as it was common. She very likely would search her pet out, and when she did, Bishop would seize her. He would have her and her precious human pet under his thumb, and like insects he would crush the life from their brittle exoskeletons, crunching like paper as their innards bled. That thought pleased the ranger. He nodded slowly as he limped around them, responding, "Very well then. We have sealed out pact. Surely, though, Demogorgon would first approve before your spilled blood officiates our compromise. My lord?"

"It is acceptable. The demoness is as worthless as the knight." Demogorgon announced.

Axarthys hissed mutedly, divorcing from Nevalle's embrace to thrust her bloodied fists down, her wound leaking freely, "I am worth in gold more than the entirety of your kingdom, _demon_. You are _no_ _one_ to appraise the fortune of my emissary's occupation nor will you ever _be_ fit to do so."

"Then perhaps you are fit for sentencing as well, insolent female." Demogorgon snapped.

"Already I am damned by birthright alone," Axarthys returned, "I can be no further punished. You have taken my soul of me, pried my love from me. All hope of happiness amongst mortals is dead; the siege of Neverwinter has shattered any chance that ever I may live peacefully there. You would condemn me further? Then imprison me in that bleak instant when I lay frozen and dying upon Faerun's shores."

"_Axarthys_, no." Nevalle insisted.

"May I _ever_ be as miserable as in that moment!" Axarthys taunted the demon prince, half in spite of tears and mostly for deep-rooted rage in the confiscation of her human by her own kind. She turned upwards her palms in victorious surrender, her faith the treasure she offered the throne of her people. What remained for her? No longer could she act as emissary, not after Neverwinter's siege. No more lived the hope of spending her days in the gardens of Castle Never, losing herself and her knight in the labyrinth of hedge mazes. There would be no more sunlit orchids, no more blue ribbons, no more Amontillado. Luxury no longer was defined by these pleasures. Luxury _then_ would have been Nevalle's life spared, Axarthys's dignity considered. Masquerades, pearls, rare silks, wineglasses, these became distant dreams, as if they existed eons before. Axarthys was reckless for it.

Or perhaps she was brave.

If such was true, Demogorgon had little regard for her courage. Axarthys was a diplomat, not a warrior. Courage to ambassadors was to risk reputation, not life itself. Reputation was worth a trowel of dirt to abyssal beings. And so the demon prince mocked Axarthys's words, shaking his head gradually, "Your impertinence I find aggravating, little Lamb. But your suggestion is a wise one, and one I am sure you will regret a hundred thousand times over in the coming years of your existence. You will be granted your wish when you have crossed the threshold of this chamber, which will be now. I grow weary of these vocal skirmishes; I, unlike you, have little patience with politics. Speak whatever final words you have for the human for my amusement, then leave me. I am weary of the face and name of Axarthys Saintrowe."

_Final words_.

Emissaries' treasured words. They were the paints the brushes of their voices created masterpieces with. Axarthys was not prepared to paint the final attestation of her love, not yet. No, not _ever_. What _joy_ would be taken in such sorrowful art when no more happiness would follow it? The darkness of this work would overshadow the brilliance of the scenes she had captured on warm, radiant mornings when the sun was pale as pink pearls upon the orange morning sea in words cooed to her love. After this scene, there would be no more masquerades of sunshine-orchids and rare pheasant's feathers, no more diamonds strung round her neck for the occasion of celebrating alongside mortals, dancing as if one of them however much she could not mesh with their masses. No, what ached most was the thought that this departure was abandonment of the man she adored to eternal torture for _her and her child's sakes alone_. The moment her heeled boots clicked on the stone outside that room, she would forever suffer cold, yes, but his fate would be sealed. It would be _her_ allowance of his agony in her name. Axarthys's back, facing the knight, melded into the curves of the front of her torso as she turned to face him, her back to the past that had been the ranger Bishop, gazing at the future of her world in the spheres of two brown eyes. Axarthys would be forced to see those eyes each day in the eyes of his child, a child's life _bought _with its father's in exchange. _No_. It was too noble, too selfless, and after too many times' selflessness Axarthys _had _to offer him salvation, whatever salvation a demon could provide.

She stared at him, solemnly and fiercely with devotion. Silent knowingness spanned between them, shared like fine wine- savored just as reverently. He spoke no words, gentlemanly to any end. Axarthys summoned strength to murmur, "You know I do not need to speak the words."

"No," he agreed in an utterance, "But one final time I would ask them of you, my lady."

She _had_ to do it. She had to.

Axarthys retreated, stepped backwards towards Bishop. Her lips trembled. Left hand opened from its fist. Arm rolled back slowly. She poised herself for the words. Her mouth opened then closed. She shivered, the snow-tresses of her head rustling like fallen leaves in the wind. Suddenly, she coiled her hand around the hilt of Bishop's rapier, leaping forward to draw it from its scabbard. Bishop lurched at the movement, too slow on his feet to recapture the blade. Axarthys lunged forward, Nevalle instinctively withdrawing. Bounding from the ground, she drove the point of the rapier into his chest, her momentum powerful enough to plunge the blade out the other side of his heart. The knight staggered, descending to the floor on his knees with both hands wrapped around the hilt of the blade as Axarthys released it, cupping her eyes as she gasped devastatingly, sinking to his side. She lamented, weeping, overwhelmed, "I had to free you, my knight. I had to stop this… this _senseless_ _suffering_."

"Axarthys-" he breathed.

"I love you," She sobbed obediently, mewling, "I'm sorry."

He whispered, "I forgive you."

"My prince!" Bishop shouted in the background. Demogorgon howled wildly, commanding his subordinate.

"_Kill her, you fool!_" The demon demanded.

"You will do no such thing."

Axarthys gazed up. At the door there stood Sedna Belladonna and Casavir accompanied by her sister the Fawn. A choir of angels surrounded them, their auras blinding, white wings like clouds themselves emanating arrantly divine light. The planetar's golden battle armor reflected her heavenly light, illuminating the chamber like the sun itself. The Fawn cried her sister's name, dashing from her company to fall astride Axarthys, bracing her tiny arms around her. She cried out, "Lamb, you're alive! I was so terrified! Balimynah sent me with Dantalion to alert Neverwinter of you coming here, and I thought you would be _dead_. Oh, Lamb!"

"Perchance it would have been better had I fallen." Axarthys cried in response. The Fawn frowned and glanced down at the human, nearly introducing herself. When she saw the sword through his torso she squeaked, cupping her mouth with her hand and releasing a frightened bawl. A number of the celestials had knelt behind the knight, one pushing Axarthys aside to remove the blade. She backed away, quivering, shielding her eyes. The Fawn grasped one of her sister's shoulders, Casavir joining them. Axarthys gasped as she breathed between tears, admitting to the paladin, distressed and devastated, "Now I know what it is to lose what you love most."

"I would never have wished this upon you." Casavir hushed. She shook her head, sobbing. She had no words for her undoing.

Sedna Belladonna had stepped before Demogorgon. Bishop swiftly backed from the planetar, fumbling with his empty scabbard as his back impacted with the stone wall behind him. The celestial firmly stated, "You have no power over this knight, Sibilant Beast. His life and soul belong and are contracted to Tyr."

"Then have him, foul planetar!" The demon prince roared. The celestial remained still, standing righteous and poised.

She responded sternly, "That is not a matter of question or your permission. My declaration of such intent is merely a formality. In a similar fashion, the life of Lady Piccadilly Saintrowe is contracted to Tyr and will not be infringed upon whilst she stands within any of the layers of the Abyss. Likewise, Tyr extends his protection to the Ladyship Emissary Axarthys Saintrowe."

"You are too late! She has already agreed to a diabolical pact, the curse of permanent cold." Demogorgon boomed triumphantly. The planetar remained motionless as the demon prince howled in laughter, waiting for the complete dissipation of the sound until she spoke once more.

"Very well, then that is her curse," she announced, "Regardless she will return to the House of the Triad alongside my choir of angels, her fellow Saintrowe and the paladin with the knight. Indeed there upon heavenly planes your control over them will ever be lost, and you will be rightfully powerless in face of the god of justice. Zadkiel?"

An angel glanced to her, "Yes, my lady?"

"Is the knight Nevalle prepared to depart?" She inquired, stone eyes stationary upon Demogorgon. The angel examined the blade extracted from the human, then to the wound itself. Even sealed, scarlet heavily darkened the blue of his tunic over his heart. His breathing grew shallow.

"Yes, but we must leave swiftly. He fades from us." Zadkiel finally decided. Sedna Belladonna raised her brow evocatively.

"And we shall. Casavir, travel with the knight. I will accompany the Lady Saintrowes," She instructed. The group readied themselves, Axarthys leaning on her sister's shoulder feebly. Had her resolve not been so drained of her, she would have entreated to travel with her knight. The sight of him fallen she could not bear. _She _had struck him down, and all for naught; the planetar had rescued them. Casavir, mind swollen with the chaotic cruelty of the realm and sick with the fall of his friend and captain, trudged in spiritual exhaustion. Propped on the shoulders of the celestials, Nevalle wavered between consciousness and collapse. As they marched towards the threshold, entering the planar portal, Sedna Belladonna lingered before the demon prince. When all had departed, she said, "Once, the rapier that struck the heart of a knight impaled the flesh of his side. Twice has that blade pierced his skin, both for the Lamb. It will not happen again."

"You speak of her as evil," Demogorgon seethed, "If that is true then abandon her in the Abyss. Tyr cares not for the fallen."

Sedna Belladonna's solemn face hardened further, expression steadfast. Her heavenly glow intensified, leaving the demon prince squinting in the intensity of her divine aura. Her armor shone gloriously, mirroring Bishop's terrified, shaken face and poison-green wings upon the surface of her cuirass. She admonished, a fire in the cool grey of her eyes, "I once told the knight Nevalle she was outside Tyr's mercy. Then moments ago, she sacrificed her own happiness in order to end his suffering. Those thousands of years lived wickedly she overcame. Do _not_ tell me now that evil is beyond salvation."

The planetar turned her back on the tanar'ri, on the Abyss. She followed the righteous to the House of the Triad, faith instilled in those that could still be saved. Damnation was no permanent state, not for those who wished not to be damned. Hope remained that redemption lived, that hope itself remained. Hope lingered that love could still awaken the heart of a demon who had brutally killed, that sacrifice could cement the ephemeral ideals of chivalry, that faith could erase the pain of memory, that familial love could reunite siblings. A mother, a father, a sister, a friend, a child had been saved that day, not an emissary, a knight, a demon, a paladin and an unborn life. For that, there was hope.

_There was hope._

-

Author's Notes:

Over a month's time and thirty-three pages later, the closing chapter is complete. Amidst moving into college, embarking on my double-major and recovering from pneumonia, my writing time has been severely limited. I am grateful for your patience and sincerely hope this chapter was worth the wait. I hit a lot of roadblocks writing it, including changing the ending seven times! Nevertheless I am proud of the final product and am excited to have the opportunity to share it with you.

I will begin writing the epilogue in a few days, so expect about two to three weeks for it to be completed and posted. Until that time, please feel free to email or review me your thoughts; having been an art student, I enjoy hearing how viewers perceive differently than the artist, and your thoughts are priceless to me! What you observe inspires me greatly.

Oh, I can't leave without saying this: Dantalion gets the best line in this entire story- "_Your_ mortal incapacity to control with your head what swings between your legs ended with my daughter becoming _pregnant…" _Muwaha! Poor Nevalle.

Peace, Love and Happy Reading,

-Valah


	11. Epilogue: Windermere

Epilogue: Windermere

The landscape of Pazunia was bleak in the gentlest of descriptions. Endless miles of barren wastelands and spontaneous, rocky columns sprouting from the reddish earth were all to be seen from any location on that layer of the Abyss. Few bastions of civilization between the vast expanses of nothingness existed, but if there was any desire for a bed and a tankard of ale, it was to be satiated at Broken Reach. A collection of crumbling, spindly towers, the place would have been overlooked on the Material Plane as the ruins of a long-forgotten empire. In the Abyss, those decrepit columns of stone were an oasis. And it was there that the knight Nevalle, jaded by the five-year anniversary's worth of fighting demons on that wretched plane, uncovered what little solace his heart could muster.

Hope, the planetar Sedna Belladonna promised. This was where hope had led, and so solace- not faith- was all Nevalle aspired to. She swore that Tyr would honor his deeds, transporting Casavir, Axarthys, and the knight himself to the House of the Triad- Tyr's realm. Nevalle was healed of the wounds he'd received in his battle against Demogorgon, and swiftly carted to Tyr's court. Nevalle anticipated humble gratitude for acting on Neverwinter's behalf, and inspiring the decency of a demon. Instead, he'd been found guilty of consorting with demons, with sullying his hands in the Abyss's taint, and Tyr punished him gravely for it. In place of lauding, he was sentenced to ten years' service for the Knights of the Chalice- an organization that ruthlessly hunted the tanar'ri and their ilk. He was permitted no farewells to his brethren or Axarthys. Nevalle was escorted from the celestial realm by a cadre of angels, chained, like a criminal.

His most poignant memory, even five years later, was the smile plastered on Casavir's face as he stood in the heavenly gardens outside Tyr's court. He was surrounded by doting angels, his expression swelling with a paladin's pride. Nevalle briskly shoved his tankard aside, spilling its contents over the edge of the table. He buried his forehead into his palms at the painful thought. _Casavir_. Was Nevalle less a hero than the paladin? Yet as excruciating as that question was to him, it paled when compared to the misery of never sharing a goodbye with Axarthys Saintrowe. No recollection of Casavir's exaltation was more unbearable that that.

A redheaded succubus passed Nevalle's table, setting his tankard upright. She paused, waiting for the knight to signal his next round of ale. Nodding at her silently, Nevalle listened to the splash of booze into the metal vessel, glancing up only momentarily towards her. He turned his face from her to avoid recognition, if the demon knew him as a Chalice knight. But she met his gaze without suspicion, flashed him a subdued smile, and noted in her native tongue, "If you're lonesome, our mistress can certainly acquire you a lady to warm your sheets tonight."

"If I were ever to accept that offer, only one woman in the Abyss would do." Nevalle dejectedly replied, casting his eyes into the refilled tankard longingly. Even the hope of seeing Axarthys could hardly undo the intense degree to which his heart had been weathered. The consideration merely numbed his despair, like the alcohol eventually would.

"Lady Red Shroud is well connected," the succubus pressed, "Unless the woman is Malcanthet herself, of course, no request is unreasonable."

"I doubt you'd know her," Nevalle mused aloud, more to himself than to the demon, "I know not where she even _is_, though I can only hope it is here. Her name was- is- Axarthys."

"Saintrowe?" the succubus inquired. When Nevalle lifted his head immediately at the sound of the name, she shrugged, continuing, "Her name is whispered, mostly. From what Graz'zt's merchants say, she worked as a diplomat in the Abyss for a time. But she was captured by devils, it is said, and if she became entangled in Blood War politics, I doubt she still lives."

Nevalle released a choked sigh, clenching his eyes shut. He managed, "She once worked in Waterdeep's service… and was very dear to me. She will be sorely missed."

The succubus's frown deepened, but she left Nevalle to the silence at the end of his statement. Quietly departing from his table to fill tankards elsewhere in the tavern, the knight crumpled into his seat, clutching the metal of his glass with trembling hands. Tears threatened him first, but it was what followed- rage- that overtook him. Slamming the tankard onto the tabletop, Nevalle let out a lengthy, furious growl. Five years, _five years_ of damnation for loving her, and despite his dedication to his sentence, notwithstanding the drudgery and misery, Tyr had stolen her from him regardless. Halfway finished with his penance and the cause of it was _lost_. And what of his child, _their _child? Was the child, too, a victim? Had Tyr sat idly while their child died, or was captured, or while its mother was torn away?

Sedna Belladonna had promised hope, and she had lied. There was nothing left now but emptiness, loneliness, and the violence of slaying demons in the name of a god Nevalle despised. For that, Nevalle would hate her. But for knowing Casavir's pain- for losing his _own_ love- Nevalle would despise the paladin. He imagine the smile on Casavir's lips, as if he were not beaming with pride for his heroism as praised by the angels, but rather smiling with vengeance. As if Casavir knew, before Nevalle ever would, that Nevalle would suffer the same heartbreak he had once endured. It was from that day, until the end of his ten year sentence, that Nevalle would no longer vanquish demons in faith that it would lead to freedom, and perhaps his love. From that moment, for the five years to follow, Nevalle brutally slaughtered demons in complete heartlessness. He would destroy every demon in his wake, as if to destroy the memory of her stormy cheeks, her snowy locks, her pinkish eyes.

He could no longer afford the hope of ever laying eyes on them again.

-

Time healed his wounds, but scars remained for Casavir. Physical reminders of her presence pained him, like visiting the Sunken Flagon or the statues commemorating her victories in Blacklake's gardens, but he lived free of emotional anguish caused by the Knight Captain's murder. He could think unclouded by the mental fog left by her death, sharpening his grasp and interests in the present, instead of cementing him to the past. After the siege of Neverwinter by the demons, Casavir returned to his duties as a Nine knight, fading into normalcy. The peaceful consistency of his daily work and court intrigues distracted him from emptiness long enough to stitch together the torn remnants of his heart. But the mending, the healing, had not begun until he laid eyes upon Sisserou Dianarca.

Casually sprawled in the tall grass outside his countryside estate, he sighed almost wistfully. Breathing felt light now, as if the easing of his emotional burdens lifted imaginary weights off his lungs. He happily tasted the scent of wildflowers in the breeze, and uttered aloud, "Three years ago, you came from Luskan to join the Nine. I never thought I'd have the vaguest reason to fall in love with you then."

"Three years?" A voice echoed in the grass.

"It's been almost two years for _us_, you know."

The grass at his right side rustled, and a face poked out from the brush. Tangled black hair, littered with twigs, framed the grinning cheekbones that greeted Casavir, responding, "Gods, has it been _less _than two years? It feels like millennia have passed since we've met! Though, for your age… perhaps time moves quicker the closer we come to our deathbeds, shall I say?"

Casavir snorted, smirking, "Sisserou, if you were thirteen _hundred_ years my junior, I would not be slighted in the _least_ by such a ridiculous comment."

"I'm _trying_ to be a good tease, darling," She pouted, "Less than two years of marriage, and my logic has already been abandoned."

"There is little common sense that can encroach upon the early bliss of marriage." Casavir romantically mused in explanation. Sisserou chuckled derisively, rolling on top of the paladin amidst the grass. She straddled his waist, and then braced her hands over his shoulders as she leaned in, her ebony hair cascading over her husband's cheeks.

"My dear, I believe I've lost my common sense as a consequence of having spent these years with a fellow paladin. Tyr should outlaw two such stubborn and godly people from _ever_ joining in the union of marriage." She decided. Both frowned momentarily, before the façade wore off. They laughed musically as another breeze caused the tall grass surrounding them to sway in a hushed whisper. When the laughter ceased, Casavir's humorous grin softened into an appreciative smile.

"You have healed the wounds her absence left in me." He murmured. Sisserou cupped his cheek with her hand, her face illuminated with loving warmth.

"If you dare utter that dreadful line, that 'I complete you', I'll never allow you to live down your depressing unoriginality." She warned. Casavir laughed aloud, shifting her weight so she lay beside him. He knotted his fingers into her tresses, propping his elbow up so he could gaze into her peridot eyes. Sisserou's countenance grew tender again, her teasing smile temporarily surrendered as she suggested "If I've healed your broken heart, perhaps it is best we collaborate on the next pressing issue before us."

"Hmm?" Casavir inquired. Sisserou's lips parted invitingly, and she murmured into his ear, so that the wisp of the grass dancing in the wind was strident enough to conceal the noise from the outside world.

"Producing our heir, of course."

-

The demon lord twisted his hand about the crest of his scepter, his eyes wary as the drow approached his throne. Draped in the cloak and robes of the demon lord's priesthood, the drow was still hardly a welcome guest. Blood War politics- in fact, simply Abyssal politics- had grown far more intense, more immediate. Those tanar'ri with clout and stations of power fretted over not only the domestic threats, as they always had in the tenuous political weather of the Abyss, but the broader concerns as well- namely, the threats of archdevils in Baator eager to end the Blood War through either alliance or slaughter of the demonic hoard. Once, those that worshipped demons were considered fanatically devotional, therefore wholly loyal to their lords. Now, however, a seemingly devout cultist could easily be the spy of an archdevil, planted in a demonic court.

And so the demon lord vigilantly stared at his priest as the drow groveled at the throne, sinking to his knees before the throne. He praised, "My lord Alvarez, noble amongst demons, it is said that Graz'zt secretly allies with Asmodeus, king of the Nine Hells."

Alvarez scoffed, visibly loosened as his shoulders relaxed and his arms fell slack in his seat. His hand was all that remained clenched, locking over his scepter as he huffed, "It was Demogorgon that raised me from the death the ranger condemned me to, and Demogorgon who reinstated me as the lord of Torturous Truth. Do you truly believe, _priest_, that I am concerned with the dealings of Graz'zt, to whom I am in no manner committed or allied? If I was, even in the remotest sense, Demogorgon would have informed me _well before_ your worthless mouth ever uttered the words."

The priest frowned, lowering his gaze to the floor. He shook his head in submissive agreement, fear casting wrinkles across his quietly horrified face. Alvarez twisted his hand over the head of his scepter, a polished skull of the last mortal who had attempted to best him: Bishop. The demon lord snarled under his breath, commanding, "Return to me with useful news next time, or you shall find yourself strung up in one of my _numerous_ torture devices. You are dismissed."

The drow scrambled from the throne room as if that parting sentence was a godsend.

-

Hope. Where had hope led the faithful, the decent? Some it led to exaltation; others, to damnation. For their faith in Tyr, one man was praised and another was damned, the latter torn mercilessly from the sole happiness outside his humble duty to lord and kingdom. Sedna Belladonna's heart wrenched in her chest with the memories of the knight Nevalle being paraded through Tyr's court in chains, as if some common criminal, for what? For love? The paladin Casavir, who bore vengeance against the demon stronger than any man, was more a criminal that the knight. And while Sedna Belladonna thought no less of the man for it- he had already paid in kind with the Knight Captain's loss- the painful contrast in their fates after the siege of Neverwinter left her questioning Tyr's religion.

The planetar knew many guises. In her true form, her skin was as polished jade, her head cleanly shaved and her wings like clouds painted upon the noon sky, immaculately white and soft in brilliant light. She had been human- twice, during her tenure in Neverwinter. She had known the face of a chocolate-haired soldier as well as the healing hands of the adventurer and cleric Camryn Nyx. Now a lonesome sojourner of the Material Plane, she adopted the guise of a blonde half-elf. The cloak slung over her shoulder bore the large, embroidered seal of Ilmater.

Though her physical appearances were transient, the banner she flew was permanent, and despite her various guises, the symbol emblazoned upon her garb rung as true as any heavenly song. She was Ilmater's servant now. Sedna Belladonna was no longer a slayer of tanar'ri, but a healer of mortal hearts, of lives broken by the fiendish taints of war, famine, abuse and disease. Perhaps those demons were far worse than the likes of Axarthys Saintrowe.

-

_Snow_! Nothing was more glorious than the snow. From within the covered sleigh, the girl gleefully pawed at the windows with her fur-gloved hands. She never wished to return home to the Abyss, where the city of Zelatar knew nothing but dank lightlessness and a cool, temperate climate. Her platinum-blonde ringlets bounced as she leapt in her seat, hopping closer to the glass. Her breath left a grey fog on the surface, and the chill emanating from the outdoors reddened her beige cheeks.

"Rialnah," the nursemaid cooed from the parallel seat, "Your nose is bound to freeze stiff if you continue to press it to the window. I'd hate to present you to the renowned Lord Dianarca with a pair of runny, puffy nostrils."

"But the _snow_, Miss Marina!" she protested. The nursemaid smiled but shook her head firmly.

"Rialnah of Azzagrat is a well-presented young lady who has seen much snow many times in her life. First impressions to one's new tutors are precisely that, _first_ impressions. You are allotted only one, and we shall make it a grand one, shan't we?" Marina carefully instructed. Rialnah nodded disappointedly, shifting to the center of her seat within the carriage. She drew the crisp, white fur of her cloak over her blonde curls and the pink horns that crested her brow. Her coffee brown eyes pleaded, but her nursemaid reminded her, "There will be plenty of snow to be had this season, Rialnah. I promise."

Satisfied with the answer, the child folded her dainty hands neatly over her pink-chiffon covered lap. Through carriage and costume, no doubts were to be had that this child was noble. But the horns, the slit pupils of her otherwise human eyes, betrayed that notion. Rialnah was a true rarity, a living novelty of sorts, and she relished the attention she received on the Material Plane. Yet no amount of doting by strangers could compensate for the absence of her parents. The girl frowned temporarily, asking, "Miss Marina? Would her Ladyship visit me here, do you think?"

The cold, formal title the girl employed for her mother disturbed the tiefling nursemaid, even after three years of caring for the child. Axarthys Saintrowe had ascended the political ladders of Zelatar swifter than any diplomat of the Abyss, and to cement herself as the cold, undeniably professional and powerful attaché that she was, permitted only her superiors to refer to her by name. Not even her own child was to call her 'mother'.

Marina gently smiled, suggesting, "Perhaps we shall visit Neverwinter, where your father was a knight, instead. Would you enjoy an outing to the city?"

"Will there be snow there?" Rialnah eagerly asked. The tiefling chuckled.

"My dear," she replied, "It is named _Neverwinter _for a reason."

-

What remained of the grapevines frosted over, leaving coiled, black branches to knot across the snowy vineyard landscape. An overcast sky completed the grey palette that comprised the color scheme of the estate. Even the homestead's exterior, once plastered with sunny stucco, was buffed by the weather to a shade of ivory that mirrored the wintry milieu. Planted on the outskirts of Waterdeep, the estate had long been empty; the plush velvet sofas and gold-leafed frames, still intact, could all but echo the luxuriant lifestyle they once satisfied.

_Windermere_, her former home. It was the Waterdhavian estate from which Nevalle had captured her, and in its glory, it had been her personal Eden

She exhaled purposefully, her breath barely a puff of fog on the dank air of the frosty house. Gazing upwards at the ceiling of the entry, her hood fell back onto her shoulders to reveal her face, her pink eyes sorrowfully closed. Happiness at Windermere was but a fleeting, aging memory to her. For that, she was bitter; she discovered heaven on the Material Plane when she was employed as an emissary there, as if merely living amongst mortals redeemed her absent soul. Windermere acted as the bastion of faith in that world, in that life. The bottomless well of her demon's lust for chaos was corked during her days there, and now that Tyr banished her to the Abyss- _damned her _never to live blissfully amongst mortals again- she would never know the unadulterated joy of peace again.

From the balcony above, she heard the descent of her companion, her champion. Each footfall was deliberate, calculated. His proximity comforted her, and quelled the sorrow and anger brewing within her. The seething recollections of her former happiness were numbed as he drifted towards her, his black leather armor crunching softly beneath the red velvet of his cloak. He leaned close to her, his warm breath humid against her ear as he noted emptily, "Tyr will know you have come here, Axarthys."

"If my presence is problematic, perhaps Tyr should have banished me to the Abyss eternally." She stated, tilting her cheek over her shoulder to catch an eyeful of his mint skin and orange eyes. His horns, protruding from his tousled black hair, were a dull shade of grey. Like twin scimitars, they curved elegantly overtop his skull. For a devil, he was handsome.

Axarthys admired his appearance further as he circled in front of her, his gait smooth and predatory. He scanned the entryway, as if for enemies, and maintained in his emotionless, muted voice, "You are safer in Baator than you are here."

Axarthys scoffed gently, "A demon, safer in the courts of devils?"

"The Blood War is hardly a threat. You have slain more demons than devils; for that, you are conceivably _more_ endangered in the Abyss than in Baator." He blandly commented. Her mouth parted to protest his words, but closed into a stark line at the realization of her actions. She had single handedly slain her demonic family within a year's time of being banished to the Abyss. Balimynah battled to the end, but the others had writhed, screaming, and their shrieks fleetingly filled the Lamb's mind. She was the sole Saintrowe left when the bloodbath subsided, and wrested the power of her kin for herself alone.

The slaughter of her family catapulted her into infamy, leading to her appointment as an advisor to Graz'zt, and his single Blood War diplomat. She regretted only that power filled the void happiness once had.

But Axarthys was not entirely without joy; her heart belonged to Absanoch, as did her life. Asmodeus, Lord of the Nine Hells named his dearest friend and tirelessly loyal assassin to her protection, so smitten was he by the Lamb's political charms in war forums held at his court. As cold and mechanical as Absanoch Shaddonhale was, he became enamored with Axarthys, and quietly adopted her as his consort.

An overwhelming love filled the Lamb as she remembered their first trysts. Abandoning lingering thoughts of her life at Windermere, she leapt into the present, catching Absanoch's hand as he passed her. Suddenly, as their bodies touched, she recognized that the contentment of the past could never please her again. Not even Nevalle, should he have thundered upon his white steed towards her then, could have bested the satisfaction of her satiated lust for power and for Absanoch Shaddonhale. Her devilish consort reassuringly squeezed her fingers between his, and she decided, "I am prepared to return to Baator."

"Do not expect another visit soon." he forewarned frigidly. Her smile was grim.

She cooed in his ear, "I expect only that then, this plane shall burn."

…_**Continued in "The Black Canary", by J. Balacko.**_


End file.
